


More Mornings Like This

by SydneyCarton



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Big Gay Love Story, Calm Down Erik, Charles Getting Uncomfortable, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Charles-centric, Cherik - Freeform, Coffee, Erik Has Feelings, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, France (Country), Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Poor Charles, Shy Charles, Shyness, Social Anxiety, Tea, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-07 18:20:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11629236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyCarton/pseuds/SydneyCarton
Summary: Charles Xavier grew up lonely and isolated in his parent's French townhouse, resulting in endless social anxiety problems. With his own sense of justice, he discreetly orchestrates the lives of those around him for the better. But who'll fix his own messy life?Enter Erik Lehnsherr: 27 year old Polish-born German, traveler, current resident of Paris, carnival worker, porn-cashier, and collector.AmelieAU





	1. Chapter 1

On September 3, 1973 at 6:28 post meridiem and 32 seconds a blue fly of the Calliphoridae species, whose wings can flutter 14670 times per minute landed on St. Vincent Street, Montmartre. At the same exact second, on a restaurant terrace nearby, the wind swept under a pristine white tablecloth, causing two empty wine glasses to dance magically a top it. Meanwhile, in a fifth floor flat on Avenue Trudaine, Paris, Eugène Koler erased the name of his best friend, Émile Maginot, from his address book after coming home from his funeral. 

Still at the same second, a spermatozoon containing an X-chromosome and belonging to Mr. Brain Xavier was reaching the ovum of Mrs. Xavier, born Sharon Gerlinde. Months later a boy was born: Charles Francis Xavier.

Charles’ father was a wealthy nuclear scientist who currently worked at Université Paris Saclay, a truly modern campus in which more buildings contain the clear ceilings and pristine halls of a spaceship in a science fiction novel than the regular components of a school. Brian Xavier doesn’t like contrary colleagues who think they know better, like Kurt Marko. He doesn’t like when tourists stop to pose outside his elegant Paris townhouse to take pictures for their family vacation scrapbooks. Brian Xavier likes giving long lectures at the university. He likes to watch his students scramble to take notes more and more as exam week crawls closer and closer. He likes to take his Conway Stewart Westminster teal pen apart on his mahogany Parnian desk, fiddle with the silver spring, and then carefully put it back together again. 

Charles’ mother, Sharon Xavier, never had her own job because she had never needed one. She doesn’t like putting away cutlery, or listening to the metallic clangs of other people putting away cutlery. She doesn’t like it when the maid puts away something she had left on the counter for later, or empty wine bottles. She likes a new bottle of Inglenook Cabernet Sauvignon in a crystal clear Riedel glass which she holds delicately with currant red painted nails. She likes to empty her handbag―whichever one held her fancy that particular week: Chanel, Fendi, Hermes, Hilde Palladino―inspect what may lay inside, and then put everything away carefully. 

Charles is six years old. 

He would like his parents to hug him―to hold him―from time to time. But the only contact he gets is when Brian pats him on the back after he recites his times tables without error, or when Sharon slaps his hand away from the small bowl of Debauve & Gallais Le Livre chocolates that always sits precariously on the rose granite mantelpiece.

Desperate for any sort of attention, Charles waits until the living room is devoid both of housekeeping and his parents before standing on the protruding hearth on his tiptoes, reaching up as far as his short arms possibly could, brushing his fingertips against the edge of the bowl, and letting it crash to the ground.

Suffice to say, Sharon was quite livid with the destruction of quite an expensive addition to the living room decor, even though the Xaviers never had (and presumably never will) have financial difficulty. Because the destruction of the china bowl and chocolates did nothing to counteract little Charles’ lack of parental coddling, he resorted to simply growing up faster than other children his age. Stuck in between two icebergs in a gigantic, essentially barren mansion of a townhouse, his only refuge are in the books he reads and the imaginary worlds he makes up. 

In these worlds, the tutors Mr and Mrs. Xavier hire to educate little Charles are secretly agents who are working undercover. The Latin Mr. Gabrielson teaches Charles every Tuesday and Thursday at 4:30pm is to uncover codes written by secret services of neighboring countries. 

In these worlds, if little Charles concentrated very hard and brought two fingers up to his temple, he could sometimes hear what other people were thinking. He sits on the window sill after a lunch the maid serving of salmon, cream cheese, and capers on toast he ate alone at the long dining-room table, and watches the pedestrians in the street. A woman in a red dress hurries down the cobblestone sidewalk, clutching a shopping bag in each hand. Little Charles brings his index and middle finger up to his temple and giggles to himself, for she’s thinking about how many balloons it would take to lift her pet dachshund off the ground. 

When Mr and Mrs. Xavier go to extravagant parties in the center of the city, they sometimes dress little Charles up and bring him along too. Little Charles finds these parties quite boring and a waste of time. He would rather be curled up on one of the leather barrel arm chairs five times his size in his townhouse’s library, reading with the  _ tick tock tick tock _ of the ancient grandfather clock in the background, but he entertains himself all the same.

He sits alone at one of the tables, clothed in a tuxedo which fit him but would better suit a young man in his late twenties. He peers over the flower centerpieces on the table and puts an index and middle finger to his temple. The adults here smile and laugh while nursing flutes of champagne, but if he concentrates hard enough, he can see the bite in the man’s chuckle the steel in the woman’s smile. 

He doesn’t like these vapid declarations of wealth (what they’re in celebration of, he never knows).

It is after one of these parties that Mr. Xavier walks unnaturally stiff. Of course, this is difficult to tell apart from his usual behavior, but little Charles notices an unsteadiness in his gait which isn’t usually there. 

When they get back to the townhouse sometime past eleven little Charles goes to bed, only to be awoken half an hour later by a loud boom that cracks it’s way through the building. 

After his termination from the staff of Université Paris Saclay, Charles’ father shot himself in the head with the small black pistol he kept in the bottom draw of his desk.

After his father’s death, Charles finds himself alone with his mother. Or rather he would have, if she hadn’t always kept to the other side of the townhouse. Mrs. Xavier withdraws into herself even more, drowning herself in the bottom of her wine glasses. Little Charles doesn’t like to go into the living room anymore because he sometimes finds forests of empty or half empty bottles of wine hidden near the leather sofa before the housekeeping can collect them. 

Days, months, then years go by. Charles’ life in the townhouse and the view he has of the cobblestone sidewalk and opposite buildings are so dull that he prefers to dream his life until he’s old enough to leave.

Years later Charles works as a waiter in a quaint bar in Montmartre, ‘Café de Sérénité’. He had wanted to move to England or perhaps America to further his education―he certainly had the money for it―but he told himself that he needed to stay close to his childhood home because of Sharon. His mother remarried to Kurt Marko after what would have counted as Charles’ last year of high school. Charles didn’t trust him one bit. 

It’s August 29. In 48 hours, his life will change forever. But he doesn’t know it yet. 

He lives quietly among his co workers and regulars. 

Alex Summers, the owner, is quiet until you really get to know him. The regulars and everyone who works at Café de Sérénité are familiar with his quick witted humor, but all everybody else sees is an angry blonde young man who won’t smile or greet you when you walk in. Although his past is unclear, it is suspected that he is a business-savvy high school dropout lucky enough to inherit a cafe in Montmartre. He likes lighting matches and watching them burn out slowly. He dislikes strangers who walk into the cafe looking like they own the place. 

Sean Cassidy, the tobacconist, has had more drugs than hot meals―at least that’s what everyone suspects. He’s a nice young man all the same, even if his eyes are red at the edges and shine like pennies on more days than not. He hates heights and when Raven cracks his knuckles, but he likes singing along to the radio. 

Raven works with Charles as a waitress. She has fiery red hair which she changes the style of every other week, and is a black belt in at least three different martial arts. Charles thinks she is that most badass girl he’s ever known, even though they have frequent disagreements. She likes reaching over the counter to grab Sean’s hand and crack his knuckles. 

She brings a warm coffee and a small, artfully made strawberry tart to Moira, who is currently having trouble finding work as a freelance publisher. She likes being proven right at the end of an argument.  

Scowling (or perhaps just deep in thought?) at them all from over his cup of tea is Hank, the only person―other than Charles, of course―in Café de Sérénité who is what they call ‘painfully astute’. He either doesn’t know that it’s obvious he has a monumental crush on Raven, or he doesn’t care. Either way, every regular and employee of the cafe is aware. He likes filling up journals with neatly written algorithms and then organizing them on his bookshelf with the Dewy Decimal system. 

Every other weekend, Charles takes the train to check on his mother, even though she obviously doesn’t want him to. He sits across the table from her, his hands fidgeting in his lap. The townhouse hasn’t changed a bit since he moved out. In fact, there still sits a bowl of chocolates (never to be eaten) a top the mantle piece. He hasn’t seen a sign of Kurt since the maid ushered him in, which he counts as a good thing. The less of him, the better. His mother is three quarters done with the red wine in her glass, and it’s eleven in the morning. 

He can’t ask her how she is, because knowing her, she’ll take the harmless opening for a conversation (as short and stilted as it may be) as an insult. Instead he asks: 

“Have you ever thought about travelling? Perhaps to Italy? Spain? It’s warm there.” He clears his throat and looks away before she can pin him down with her blurry blue eyes. She catches him anyway, glowering at him over her wine glass and under her mascara-darkened lashes. 

“And do what? Honestly Charles, the silly ideas you come up with.” And she takes another sip―gulp―of wine. Charles shrugs weakly. Sharon didn’t talk to him when he lived here as a little boy, what made him think that she would talk to him now? 

“Well, work is coming along nicely at the Cafe. We have lots of regulars.” 

“Hmm,” Sharon drinks some more. 

“You should stop by sometime,” he tries to sound nonchalant but it all comes out rather strained and eager-sounding. “You can have the nicest table, it’s next to a big window overlooking the street and there’s always a lot of warm sun coming through. I can make you a cappuccino and―”

“You know I don’t like those greasy places. Silly, silly, silly…” She shakes her head and disappears into the kitchen, Charles suspects, to fill her empty glass. 

He leaves the townhouse promising himself that he’ll never come back, but he’s smart enough to know when he’s lying to himself. 

When his own flat feels especially lonely, his eyes have crossed from reading, and he’s got nothing better to do, Charles goes to the movies. He likes to sit at the back and watch the projector cut through the floating specks of dusk in the the dark room. When the credits roll and everyone gets up to go, Charles likes to watch them leave, stumbling and slightly disorientated. Laughing if it was a funny ending, crying if it was especially happy or sad. He likes noticing the details that no one else takes the time to. But he hates movies that are loud and have no plot. 

Charles doesn’t have a girlfriend or a boyfriend, because he tried it twice and the experience was subpar. Instead, he appreciates small pleasures, like opening the door for someone who has their hands full, unsealing a cardboard box package he ordered online with a sharp pair of scissors, the smell of an old library, taking long walks along St. Martin’s Canal, and sitting on a comfy leather sofa in front of a crackling fire with a cup of tea and a good read. 

He’s putting the kettle on for a late cup of tea one night when something catches the corner of his eye. He turns the oven top to medium, and then peers out the kitchen window. Across the courtyard the other side of the block of flats has a window in the same place as his kitchen window but a few stories lower. It’s cream curtains are open a crack. Charles crouches down until he’s sure he can’t be seen. 

There’s a woman―he can see just the edges of movement―dressed entirely in white. A white blouse perhaps, and stylish, pristine trousers. She’s painting something, although Charles cannot see what it is. Everyone on the street knows who she is, the Lady in White, but no one knows who she  _ is _ . She never leaves her flat. No one has ever seen her step outside. 

He wonders what she’s painting. 

He draws his curtains and continues making his tea. 

Because he has the top flat in this side of the building, Charles has easy access to the roof. He likes to stand there sometimes, overlooking the sea of red clay tiled-roofs of buildings which seem to stretch on forever and asking himself questions. Like:

_ How many college students just failed an exam?  _ He ponders this for quite a while, dreaming up different scenarios. They’ve given up on studying for the semester, they forgot to turn the last page over and didn’t see the last ten questions, oh, the horror! When he’s run that idea dry, he thinks of a different questions, like:

_ How many people are having an orgasm right now?  _ He smiles puckishly to himself and thinks,  _ 15. _

Finally, on August 30, 1997, comes the event that changes her life forever. 

He’s standing in the bathroom in his pajamas, brushing his teeth in front of the medicine cabinet mirror with the door open and the television playing in the next room. He can hear the football announcer from here, and almost stubs his toe when his favorite team scores a goal. He spits in the sink and quickly washes his mouth out, lest he miss something. 

The announcer’s voice stops, suddenly replaced by a more calm-sounding one from an older gentleman. 

“Lady Diana, Princess of Wales died in a car crash last night with her companion Dodi Al-Fayed―”

This time Charles does stub his toe on one of the tile baseboards. 

_ Princess Diana?! _

He hears an unexpected crunch, and after he’s sure that it did not come from his toe (not broken, although it did hurt), he kneels down to the floor to inspect the loose tile.

He means to fix it, to shove it back into place, but instead it comes right off the wall in his hands. He puts it down to the side and braces his hands against the cold tile floor, putting his head to the ground to get a view of the damage. The loose tile had been covering a hole in the wall that went back a lot farther than Charles could see the end of. But he thinks he can see something. 

He reaches for it, whatever it is. His hand is greeted by gritty dirt and crusted cement until there’s something else. He pulls it out. 

It’s a tin box, heavy with something inside. Content with his discovery, he scoots back until he’s sitting cross-legged with his back to the wall. The news report on Princess Diana fades away into the background. The box is quite pretty after he blows and paws away the dust, no doubt the tin box has been hiding back there for years. 

It’s red with gold patterns about the sides and ‘Bergamotes de Nancy’ printed in gold across the lid. He pries the lid―stiff from rust―open with his fingertips. He can hardly suppress a gasp of wonder. There are old treasures hidden inside. A black and white photo of a man his age with a rugby ball under his arm, walking across a field. Charles picks it up, admiring it, and flips it over to see if there was something written on the back. Nothing. Only the discoverers of Tutankhamen's Tomb could know how he felt upon finding this treasure, hidden by a little boy over forty years ago. 

An old whistle, a toy racing car, a deck of cards, a few more pictures. 

Charles carried the box with him into his bedroom where pictures of Princess Diana’s car crash were still flashing across the screen. He turned off the television and set the box down gently on his bedside table. 

On August 31st at 4:00am, Charles had a dazzling idea. Wherever he was, he would find the owner of the box, and give him back his treasure. If he was touched, then he would become a regular do-gooder. If not, too bad.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles begins his search for the owner of the tin box, meeting a few people along the way.

The following morning was a Saturday, an opportune time for Charles to begin his search for the owner of the tin box. The boy must have lived in this flat quite some time ago; the only people Charles could think of who have lived in the complex long enough to maybe know him are the Lady in White and Madeleine Wallace. The Lady in White was an enigma so wrapped in mystery that Charles could not bring himself to knock on her door when he came to it, so instead he went down to the first floor to speak with Madeleine Wallace. 

Madeleine Wallace was a plump old lady with a large tangle of red hair, constantly surprised eyebrows of a slightly different shade, upturned blue eyes, and a hunched back. She walked around like she had a secret, and her voice was always quiet and whispery, too. 

Charles steels himself and knocks on the window of her door, which was covered on the other side by salmon colored curtains. A few moments later, the curtains are drawn aside a few inches. The old woman assesses her company with a scrutinizing gaze and then unlatches the door, opening it. 

“The boy from the fifth floor,” she mutters. They were about the same height, as Charles had always been a small boy. He ducks his head and tries to smile politely. “We don’t see much of you.”

“Would you know of a boy who lived in my flat in the fifties?” He asks. He can smell the distinct, heavy odor of Yves Saint Laurent Beauty Parisienne Eau de Parfum Spray creeping towards him slowly from Madeleine Wallace’s kitchen, and he would rather go back to his own flat than stand here for much longer. 

“A boy?” Madeleine breaths out a long sigh. “Have a glass of port.” She beckons him inside. Charles’ eyes dart around, frantically looking for any way of escape. There is none. 

“No, thanks.” He steps into the kitchen, which is bright but cluttered with all sorts of decorative dishes and creeping plants. 

“Come in, come in! Close the door,” the old woman persists, and starts pouring two generous glasses of port. Charles closes the door softly behind him and steps as quietly as possible into the kitchen. “Boys, I’ve known so many,” she begins on what sounds like a lengthy saga. He is sure that no details will be spared. “They’re cute at first, but then they discover snowballs and chestnuts.” Charles leans against one of the kitchen table chairs, unsure whether he should sit down or make a run for it. He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. “I’ve known so many boys.”

“When did you come here?” Charles asks, trying to steer the conversation back to terrain he could handle: the owner of the tin box. 

“In 64’. You’ll have heard the story?” She putters around the table towards him, a large glass of port in each hand. She wears a large gold wedding ring on her left hand. 

“No,” he answers simply. 

“I’m amazed. Sit down.” Charles sat down on the edge of the seat, should he have to flee. “My husband worked for Coccinelle Insurance. It’s no secret that he slept with his secretary.” Charles looks anywhere but her eyes. Was he supposed to offer his condolences, or not say anything? He ended up staying silent. “They used every hotel around. Not cheap ones, either…” Charles reaches out tentatively and takes a sip of port. It’s very strong, but he succeeds in swallowing it before it burns a hole in his mouth. “The bimbo liked to spread her legs, but only on satin sheets!” Charles’ eyes widen, but he hides his surprise with another sip of port. “My husband started to steal from his firm. First only a little, then a million at a time. Off they flew to Panama.” Madeleine Wallace gulps down all of her port in one go. She looks to Charles, who has barely finished half. “Drink up,” she says. 

“On January 20, 1970 my doorbell rang. ‘Ma’am, your husband’s been killed by a car crash in South America.’ My life just stopped,” she looks up at him now, upturned eyes searching for sympathy. Charles gives her his best ‘I am sorry for your loss’ face. “Black Lion died of heartbreak,” she continues, and Charles has no idea what she’s on about until she gestures to the corner of the kitchen, where a stuffed black dog sits on it’s haunches. “Poor creature.” It’s amber eyes are half-lidded but bright, and they seem to be staring at him. Charles tries not to look at it. “See how lovingly he stares at his master?” Madeleine Wallace points to a framed picture on the wall, just behind Charles. It is of a man with a thick dark beard and dark eyes. “I’ll read you his letters…” She starts to get up, just as the grandfather clock chimes. Charles does too―perhaps he can edge his way out― “Don’t go! You can spare five minutes!” She has a pile of envelopes in her hands, which she must have retrieved from a place nearby. “He wrote this from the Army Camp.” She opened the first one, and Charles tries to make his sigh quiet enough that she won’t hear. She begins to read:

“‘My darling Madeleine,’ that’s me, ‘I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, knowing that my only reason to live is far away in Paris and I won’t see her until next Friday when my sweet little weasel appears at the station in her blue dress’, in parenthesis he wrote, ‘the one you think is too transparent.’” She falls silent, and for a terrifying second Charles thinks she’s going to cry. She doesn’t. “Have you ever received a letter like this?” 

“No. I’m nobody’s little weasel.” He shakes his head and wonders if he’s missing out. Neither of them speak for a moment.

“About your question. Go and ask Shaw, the grocer. He’s lived here all his life.” 

It’s raining when he steps outside of Madeleine Wallace’s flat, so he spares a few minutes to run and get his umbrella. Sebastian Shaw, the neighborhood grocer, owns the grocery on the first floor of the building. It’s painted a dark shade of green, like the cucumbers Shaw sells, and has a red awning with the words ‘AU MARCHE DE LA BUTTE’ printed in bold white lettering across it. Currently, the red awning hung over the outside display of fruits and vegetables which sat in tilted wooden trays, as well as the employees standing behind them. Droplets of rain hit the taut fabric, making an ambient  _ pitter patter pitter patter _ sound, gathering into streams, and falling in cascades down the front of the awning to the cobblestone street below. 

Charles pokes his way through the line of umbrella-wielding customers after he’s sure most of them are simply there to listen in on Shaw’s antics. His umbrella tips forward in his grasp, and he winces when he feels the cold rain against the back of his neck, righting his grip. 

“Hello, Charlie!” Sebastian’s standing behind the vegetables, safe from the rain with a pencil behind his ear. He has a mean curl to his smile which has unnerved Charles ever since he first had the pleasure of meeting him. “The usual?” He asks, eyes away from him now―thank goodness―writing something down in his notebook. Charles stands up as tall as he can, his shoulders at his ears because of the cold. 

“Who lived in my flat in the fifties? What was their name?” 

“You’ve got me there, boyo. Tough question. In 1950 I was two, the mental age of The Cretin.”

‘The Cretin’ is Azazel, a tall, dark-haired man with a goatee a bit older than Charles. He emigrated to France from Russia, and doesn’t know the language very well. Charles (and everyone else, really) knows he is an intelligent man, but Shaw prefers to acknowledge his lack of understanding as simple stupidity. Charles likes him because he handles all of the fruits and vegetables delicately, whereas Sebastian throws them carelessly into the carts. 

Charles nods at Azazel, a wordless ‘hello’, and the Russian nods back from where he’s putting away kiwis.

“Look at him,” Shaw sneers, leaning over the display of Granny Smith apples, “it’s like he’s nursing a baby bird or something!” Charles wants to say something in Azazel’s defense, but Shaw is louder and taller and stronger and he has to come here every three days for fresh groceries. The guilt naws at his gut, saying  _ you’re a coward _ . “It’s not alive, you imbecile. Don’t ask him for currants, you’d be here until Monday!” He laughs, and Charles narrows his eyes. Azazel can obviously understand, simply from Shaw’s tone of voice, that he’s being mocked and rolls his own eyes. “Get moving, spastic! We haven't got all day!” Sebastian gets in Azazel’s face and speaks to him as if he were an incompetent child. 

Charles glowers. 

Azazel looks over to him and shrugs, and Charles tries to offer him a reassuring smile, although he’s sure Azazel is strong enough that he doesn’t even need it.

“Go to my mother, she has an elephant’s memory.” Sebastian Shaw said eventually. Charles had no idea Shaw had a mother. He always thought that he hatched from an egg or something of the sort. Sebastian hands him a piece of paper with an address written in scratchy writing on it. “Elephant mum!” Sebastian chuckles to himself, eyes wide as if waiting for Charles to laugh with him. Charles scowls at him from under his brows. 

“Thank you,” he says, and stalks away, his blue umbrella shielding him from the torrential downpour. 

By the time Charles reaches the house of Sebastian Shaw’s parents (which was on the other side of town, he isn’t that surprised, because if he had a son like that he would want to live as far away as possible) the rain has been replaced by warm rays of sunshine. 

“Bredoteau,” the old man (Shaw’s father) says from his place across the small glass table from Charles. They’re sitting in the garden, surrounded by skinny fruit trees and bright flower patches. Charles looks over the rim of the teacup he has held to his lips, raising his eyebrows. He put the teacup down delicately. 

“Pardon?” 

“The name you’re after. But if I say it, it won’t count. I’m senile,” he says, leaning forwards and chuckling like it’s the most hilarious thing he’s ever heard. 

“Ignore him, he’s senile.” Shaw’s mother has opened the screen door that connects the kitchen to the backyard and is walking towards them with what looks like a handful of old phone books and a pale orange linen dress. “Look what he’s done to my favorite dress!” She drops them down on the table and Mr. Shaw shouts out and tries to catch his tea cup when it falls to the ground. Charles leans back in his chair, hiding behind his teacup while the old couple fight. 

“His old job was punching metro tickets. Now he gets up in the middle of the night and punches holes in the clothes I keep in my wardrobe!” Mrs. Shaw holds the dress out in front of Charles, who can now see clearly the dozens of neat, small holes cut through the orange linen up and down the sides. 

“We all need a way to relax!” Mr. Shaw scowls, flinging the dress away. Mrs. Shaw looks at him incredulously. 

“I like to read,” Charles shrugs. 

“You do? Good, most young people have forgotten the novelty of it.” Mr. Shaw smiles and Charles wonders how these two could possibly be related to Sebastian. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll find it. I’m very organized,” Mrs. Shaw says, flipping through the phone books. “Sebastian’s nearly fifty and I still do his bookkeeping!” She shakes her head. 

“You were still putting toothpaste on his toothbrush when he was fifteen,” Mr. Shaw points out. 

“Got it!” Mrs. Shaw ignores her husband and points to a name. “Bredoteau, fifth floor. They were northerners.” 

“Bredoteau, what more can I say?” Mr. Shaw shrugs, and smirks over the table at Charles. Charles smiles back.

Charles is taking the metro to see his mother.

The trip goes smoothly, as there aren’t many people traveling today. Charles steps off the train, minding the gap, and follows the small trickle of people until he’s presented with a chance to turn around a different corner than the rest, and he does.

The cylindrical white and green tiled hallways are empty of commuters and travelers. Music reverberates down the greenish-hue lit passageways, the echo warping the tone of the song until Charles assumes it sounds completely different that what it’s supposed to. He’s not in a rush, so he ambles along the corridors, following the melancholy melody.

He’s a solivagant in an empty metro station.

He traverses the hallways until he comes to the large open room with railroad tracks off to the side. The openness of the platform is a startling difference to the rest of the metro. The curved tile wall is barren besides two enormous orange posters advertising movies. There’s a blind man with a cloud of white hair haloing his head sitting on a green painted bench, a record player in his lap. Charles drops the extra change from his leather wallet into the hat that sits beside him and wonders what his name is, but doesn’t say anything. The old man nods in thanks, his eyes fixed on the point right in front of him. 

The music continues to echo around the platform. 

That’s when Charles’ limpid blue eyes fix on  _ him _ , kneeling with his face to the ground beside the photo booth. He has what looks like a metal ruler in his hand, and is attempting to scrape something out from underneath the machine. 

This young man who rummages about under the photo booth is called Erik Lehnsherr. While Charles was denied the company of other children, Erik would rather have done without. Often, at the same moment, even three miles away from each other, they both dreamed of a brother or sister with whom they’d play all the time. 

Charles stares down at the man for a moment, wondering what he’s looking for. Of course, he can’t work up the courage to ask.

***

It isn’t long before Erik notices the pair of shoes pointing in his direction, and looks up to see a rather short man with wavy brown hair and startlingly cornflower blue eyes. Erik turns and looks behind him, making sure that he’s the one the blue-eyed man is looking at and not someone else. The only people on this platform are them and the blind man. He looks back. 

***

Charles presses his lips together and blinks rapidly, before rushing along past the man crouched next to the photo booth towards the exit. 

***

Erik watches the short man run―stumble―up the wide subway stairs which lead above ground, to the outside world. He looks back once, startled to see Erik still observing him, and quickly vanishes around the corner. Erik raises a brow, shrugs, and gets back to work.

***

“Good afternoon, mother.” Charles and Sharon are in the living room this weekend, on different sofas. Kurt Marko was God knows where, which brightens Charles’ mood a bit. Mrs. Xavier is sipping at Bodegas Roda Cirsion. 

“Good afternoon, Charles.” She replied stiffly. The rest of their conversation went on as stilted as it ever did, and Charles was getting ready to take his leave when an idea suddenly came to mind. 

“Mother, if you found a precious relic from your childhood how would you feel? Happy? Sad? Nostalgic?” This was dangerous territory, as the Xaviers did not usually talk about feelings. 

“This Cirsion is hardly a relic. It’s 2005, I’ve had better.”

“No, I mean something you hid, like a secret treasure.”

“The 1945 Mouton Rothschild will be ready in about a decade. That will be absolutely splendid.”

Charles looks down at his lap where his fingers tap against his knees and watches as his hands curl into tight fists. 

“I’ll make some tea before I go. Do you want some?” 

Sharon shrugs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solivagant = a solitary wanderer  
> If you haven't seen the film 'Amelie' I HIGHLY recommend you do (It's magnificent). Here's a youtube link to the soundtrack, which is fantastic even standing alone, and conveys the perfect atmosphere for the movie (and this fic!). https://youtu.be/7wCLK9iOPDw


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles finds what he's looking for.

In Café de Sérénité, Raven reaches across the tobacconist's counter, grabs Sean’s hand in her’s, and cracks his knuckles in her fist. 

“Agh! Raven! I told you not to do that, I’ll get arthritis!” He whines, clutching his freshly-cracked hand to his chest. 

“You can’t get arthritis from cracking your knuckles, Sean,” Raven rolls her eyes, back to wiping down the tables, “they did a whole study about it. Quit being such a baby.” She tossed her hair, which this week was long and had mermaid-like beach curls. Two more customers came in and Sean leaned across the counter. 

“Shut the door! The wind’s cold!” Sean shrinks back when Alex scowls at him. 

“It’s not Siberia,” the blonde man says, wearing the same incredulous expression most people do after Sean says something especially ridiculous. 

“I’m the one who has to stand closest to the door,” Sean shoots back, and then adds, “the wind reminds me of the time my friends convinced me to go bungy-jumping. I swear, I almost died.” Sean buried his face in his hands. Alex ignored him and goes back to putting dirty cups in the dishwasher. 

“What’s on today, Raven?” One of the more frequent visitors of Café de Sérénité asks.

“What’s on today, Alex?” Raven doesn’t miss a beat, turning to look at the Cafe’s owner. Alex stands from behind the counter and reports:

“Boeuf Bourguignon, Croque Monsieur, and the usual Steak Frites.” 

“That,” Raven tilts her head. 

“I’ll have Boeuf Bourguignon, please.” The customer says, and a few more chime in with their orders. Raven writes them down and heads to the kitchen to tell the chefs. 

Charles rushed to the tables to place knives, forks, spoons, and glasses in their places. Hank is sitting of to the side at the best table to inconspicuously watch Raven wait tables. Charles once asked her if she finds him creepy, but she just laughed and said that if he tried anything creepy she could probably flip him out the window. Plus, she enjoyed the extra attention. 

Sean hands the blind man Charles saw in the subway station a box of cigarettes, and is immediately reminded of the man he saw next to the photo booth. He shakes his head. 

After most of the customers have trickled out and Charles has an extra moment, he goes to the back room and flips through the phone book in the pale orange light. 

_ BredoteauBredoteauBredoteauBredoteau _

He finds him eventually: Dominique Bredoteau, 15 r du Colonel Driant 1E. But there’s a few of them. At least four more. He’ll have to work fast.

“Alex, can I leave early today?” He asks. He hasn’t taken any of his holidays in the three years he’s worked here, even though technically he doesn’t even need a job to live comfortably. Alex leans up against the counter, the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. 

“What’s her name?” He asks. Charles coughs awkwardly before stuttering out:

“Dominique Bredoteau.”

Charles rings the doorbell, the tin box in his rucksack, and an impish smile on his face. A man who looked younger than him opens the door, and Charles’ smile immediately falls. The man looks him up and down, confused.

“Hello?”

“You’re Dominique Bredoteau?” Charles asks, even though he knows this can’t be the right man. He’s too young. 

“That’s me. Why?”

Charles gulps. 

Whatdoeshesaywhatdoeshesaywhatdoeshesaywhatdoeshesaywhatdoeshesay

“I-I’m here for…” Oh no oh no oh no, “The petition,” he winces. 

“The petition?”

“Yes, the petition to… have a mural painted of Lady Diana for La Louvre.” 

_ Nice one, Charles _

“Uhm,” the young man narrows his eyes, “no thanks. Bye.” And he closes the door. Charles breathes a sigh of relief. When he gets out onto the street, he crosses the address he just visited off in his notebook. On to the next one. 

The next building he visits is much larger and grander than the last. It reminds him of his childhood home, if only a bit smaller. He rings the bell after a moment’s hesitation. 

“Yes?” The speaker calls. 

“Hello, I’m looking for a Dominique Bredoteau? For the European Census?” Charles answers, this time prepared with an alibi, and after a second the front door unlocks. 

“Come on up, third floor.” Charles steps into the dimly lit building and uses the old-fashioned elevator to get to the third floor.

“Hello, little kitten.” A woman in a bright red dress is leaning against the wall, a cup of steaming tea in her hand. Charles looks up slowly. “Earl Grey? Oolong?” She prompts, opening one of the flat doors. Charles tries to smile, but it comes out as a grimace. “What will you have?”

“I’m busy.” He shakes his head and escapes down the elevator as quickly as possible. 

Once he reaches the street he crosses off the address. 

One left, this must be him. 

The next door he knocks on his answered by a weeping young woman. 

“Uhm, pardon me, where can I find a Dominique Bredoteau?” He asks, pressing his lips together and focusing his eyes on the spot on the wall just behind the girl’s face. He takes a tiny step back when the girl erupts into more tears. 

“Poor dear, you just missed him!” She sobs, pointing towards the winding staircase behind her. “Look, there he goes now!”

Charles looks up, eyes wide, and watches as four men dressed in black carry down a coffin. 

He gets outside and crosses off the last address. That’s it, the owner of the secret treasure Dominique Bredoteau is dead. Charles climbs the stairs to his flat sullenly, the weight of the tin box in his rucksack only dampening his mood more. All of this, for nothing. He couldn’t even reach Dominique before he died. 

“Bretod-eau.” he whorls around, almost falling down the stairs.  _ The _ Woman in White is leaning up against her doorframe. “I know who you're looking for, come in. You look like you need something to drink.” She turns and disappears into her flat, leaving the door open. 

Charles stands, stock-still in the doorway. 

“Come in!” She calls, and he scrambles inside, closing the door behind him. The flat is just as chic and spotless as the clothes she wears. Everything is done in creams, whites, bones, or light browns. Although the layout is very similar to Charles’ flat, it looks drastically different.

“I’ve lived here for five years,” Charles says, setting down his bag beside the door, “but I’ve never seen you before.” 

“I never go out on the landing. I’m picky about who I meet, you understand.”

Charles doesn’t understand, but he nods his head anyway. 

“Come in! What are you doing hovering around the door?” She ushers him in, sitting him down on one of the cream colored arm chairs. He’s terrified he’ll spill something on it. There’s a wonderful painting off to the side, and he wonders if it’s the same one he saw the other day. “The ridiculous people in this block of flats call me the Lady in White, but my name’s Emma. Emma Frost.” She shakes his hand, and her grip is just as strong as Raven’s. 

“Nice to meet you,” Charles says, inconspicuously rubbing his sore hand. “I’m Charles Xavier. I’m a waiter at―”

“Café de Sérénité, yes I know.” Emma hands him a warm mug of red wine mixed with cinnamon.

“Thank you.”

“And you’re coming back empty-handed from your hunt for Dominique Bredoteau, because you’re pronouncing it wrong. It’s ‘to’, not ‘do’.” 

_ Ahhh _

Charles looks back over to the canvas in the corner.

“That painting, it’s lovely.” 

“It’s the Luncheon of the Boating Party, by Renoir.”

“Ah,” Charles says. Emma leads him over to a closet, smiles at him, and opens the door. There were at least ten canvases of the same exact painting, although each was slightly different from the last. One of them had more muted colors, while another was very brightly painted. One was very detailed and realistic, while another was flowy and more impressionistic. 

“I’ve painted twenty, one for each year,” Emma says proudly. Charles was starting to think that she’s quite a lot older than she looks. “The most difficult parts are the individual looks.” Emma says, lifting one up. “Sometimes, I feel like they change their expressions every time I turn my back. Deliberately.” She smiles, and although it’s barely noticeable, Charles thinks to himself that she seems like the type of person who deserves more things that make her smile. 

“They look quite happy,” he says, examining the woman in the blue dress with a small dog on her lap. 

“They should be,” Emma exclaims. “They’re eating very expensive food at a nice party on a boat.” 

Emma brings over her latest painting, leaning it up against the side table, and they both take a seat on opposite leather cream arm chairs to sip at their warm mulled wine. 

“The only person I still can’t capture, even after all these years, is the child with the glass of water. He’s in the middle of the party, but an outsider.” The boy is small, with short, wavy, brown hair covered by a straw hat with a blue flower nestled in the red ribbon. Charles leans forward. 

“Perhaps he’s just different?” He muses. 

“Hm? In what way?” Emma looks over to him and he immediately seizes up. 

“I don’t know.”

“When he was little, he rarely played with other children,” Emma says, sipping at her wine. “Maybe never.” Her gaze is not mean, but sharp and cold. Her blue eyes search Charles’ for a moment, pointed like broken glass. She leans forward and picks up a notebook and a pen from the table. “Dominique Bretodeau 27 Rue Mouffetard.” She speaks as she writes it down in perfect script-handwriting. She rips out the piece of paper and hands it to Charles saying, “this is for you.”

Every Tuesday morning Dominique Bretodeau buys a chicken from the bustling street market. He roasts it with potatoes. After carving the legs and wings he loves picking at the hot carcass with his fingers, starting with the oysters. 

But not today. Today, Bretodeau won’t buy a chicken. He’ll get halfway down the street, and then stop when he hears a phone box ring. When no one else seems to hear, curiosity gets the better of him, and he answers the phone. As soon as he places the phone to his ear, Charles (who stands in the phone booth across the wide street) hangs up. Bretodeau looks around, baffled, until his eyes land on the small red tin box, sitting unassumingly on the ledge of the phone box. He lifts it up, examining it. He remembers this box, but can’t place where from. 

Charles leans around the corner of his own phone box, watching from across the street, a puckish smile on his face. Bretodeau opens the box, and lets out a startled gasp, his eyes crinkled with emotion. There’s a picture of his favorite athlete who he rooted for as a child, a rugby ball under his arm. He remembers hiding this box in the space behind one of the tile baseboards in his childhood home. He looks around―who put this here? He picks up the photo and tears threaten to spill as it all comes back in a flash. Bahamontes winning the Tour de France, Aunt Josette’s slips through the tiny keyhole in the wall, and most of all, the tragic day he won all the marbles in the school courtyard. He must have been six, and when the teacher blew the whistle to line up to get back inside for class the weight of the marbles ripped through the thin fabric of his pockets and spilt everywhere. 

Dominique Bretodeau sits down at the closest bar and orders a cognac. 

“Amazing, what just happened. It must be my guardian angel. The phone booth was calling me.” 

The bartender raises a brow as the microwave dings. 

“Same here, the microwave is calling me!” He chuckles. 

“I’ll have another cognac,” Bretodeau says, “life’s funny,” he turns to Charles, who has been sitting two stools down. “To a kid, time always drags. Suddenly you’re fifty. And all that’s left of your childhood fits inside a rusty little box.” He looks at Charles. “You got kids, mister?” Charles shakes his head. “I have a daughter about your age. We haven’t spoken for years. I heard she had a child, a boy. His name is Lucas. It’s time I looked them up, before I’m in a box myself, don’t you think?” He says, his voice wavering. Charles smiles, nods, and drinks all of his own cognac in one gulp. 

After Dominique Bretodeau, Charles feels a strange feeling of absolute harmony. He’s walking across a high bridge over a wide river, the occasional car whizzing by. It’s a perfect moment. Soft light, a scent in the air, and the quiet murmur of the city. He breathes deeply. Life is simple and clear. A surge of love, a sudden urge to help mankind comes over him. 

The blind man from the subway is tapping his walking stick against the curb, waiting for a moment when the traffic stops so that he can walk across to the market. Charles puts a friendly hand around his arm. 

“Let me help you. Step down. Here we go!” They march across the cobblestone street. “The drum major’s widow! She’s worn his coat since the day he died. The carved horse's head on the Grill Restaurant has lost an ear! That’s the florist laughing. He has crinkly eyes. In the bakery window, lollipops. Smell that? They’re giving out melon slices. Sugar Plum ice cream!” Charles looks up and the blind man has an incredibly wide smile on his face. “We’re passing the park butcher. Ham, 79 francs, spareribs, 45! Now the cheese shop. Picadors are 12.90. Cabecaus 23.50. A baby’s watching a dog that’s watching the chickens cooking in the window. Now we’re at the Kiosk by the Metro. I’ll leave you here, bye!” Charles lets go of the blind man’s arm and runs up the stairs. The blind man feels as though he can see again. 

The next time Charles is in the subway, he sees the man rummaging for something under the photo booth again. Suddenly, he can’t move. He stands there, people moving around him and the man on the floor like they were stones in a river. The photo booth man eventually looks up and sees him. 

***

Erik tilts his head, confused. It’s the same man from a few weeks ago. His blue eyes are as wide as saucers but he stands as still as a statue. Someone walks out from around the corner, marching past the blue-eyed man. It’s him, there’s no doubt. Only one person in France has that hair, and Erik’s not letting him get away this time. 

***

“Hey, Monsieur!” The photo booth man rushes towards Charles and for a terrifying second he thinks he means  _ him _ . But he pushes past him, almost knocking Charles right over. Photo booth man is chasing someone, a man with a leather jacket, jeans, and thick brown hair pointed at the sides. Charles doesn’t know why, but he feels compelled to chase after them. Photo booth man gets outside, sliding across the floor which is slippery from rain before regaining his balance and continuing his chase after the man wearing the leather jacket. Charles makes the same mistake and also slides across the floor once he gets outside, balancing on one foot before continuing his own chase. “Wait!” Photo booth man calls, but the man wearing the leather jacket continues speed-walking down the street and up the stairs. “Wait! Wait!” He calls, but the man wearing the leather jacket is already pulling away in his car.

***

Erik grabs onto the handles of his motorbike, swinging a leg over. He can’t get away  _ again _ ! He revs the engine, taking off after the car. He doesn’t notice the box he keeps tied to the back of his bike coming loose and falling off onto the middle of the road.

***

Charles watches as the motorcycle roars away, but before he leaves, something in the road catches his eye. It’s a black box―something an artist would keep their portfolio in, but wider. He tucks it under his arm. 

Charles sits on the steps leading outside the subway, flipping through the pages of the scrapbook he found in the box photo booth man left behind. Pages and pages full of dual ID photos, torn up and discarded by their owners, carefully reassembled and glued into the pages of this book by some strange man―the man who rummages beneath the photo booths. He does it to find ripped up photos for his scrapbook! Charles admired the hard work put into putting the photos back together. He closes the book thinking:

_ I will return this, just like the rusty tin box.  _


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to come together.

At Café de Sérénité, Sean hands a pack of Gauloises over the counter to a woman who has had enough of his flirting. She leaves quickly after she’s paid, adjusting her dark sunglasses. Sean, to his credit, doesn’t seem to be too discouraged. As soon as the glass door swings shut behind her he begins reorganizing the colorful lollipops displayed on his counter by color.

Charles brings Hank a macchiato, who nods in thanks and then continues to hide behind his thick-rimmed glasses.

Moira is talking to Alex about whether or not true love exists at the counter. 

“After working behind a bar for as long as I have, I could even give you the recipe.” Alex smirks. “Get two regulars, mix them together, and let them stew. It never fails.” At that moment, Raven walks out of the kitchen with a tray of strawberry and raspberry tarts balanced on one hand. This week her red hair is an asymmetrical bob, the larger set of bangs on the right clipped up with blue sapphire hairclips. Hank peers around the corner. Both edges of Charles’ mouth lift upwards in what could only be described as the most puckish closed-mouth smile on the face of the earth. 

“Excuse me?” Hank calls from the side. 

“I’ll go,” Charles rushes over after the others give terse nods. He clears away the empty coffee cup and small plate that sits on Hank’s table. “Her favorite color is blue, and she loves Irises and the smell of Hydrangea,” he whispers, smiling, but keeping his voice low enough that the other staff can’t hear him. Hank looks up, a hopeful expression on his face. 

“Thanks,” he says gratefully. Charles nods. 

“She’ll appreciate flowers, but what’ll win her over is  _ confidence _ . Have faith in yourself, Hank,” and he’s off to restock the dishwasher. 

It’s the end of the day, and the Cafe is closed. The days must be growing shorter, or perhaps it’s just a cloudy night, because it’s pitch black outside. The Cafe is lit up from the inside by the soft, glowing overhead lamps stationed on the walls between tables. Alex and Sean left about ten minutes ago, leaving Raven and Charles to finish mopping the floor and counters for another day of work tomorrow.

Charles opens his mouth to speak from his place scrubbing spilt egg off the edge of one of the tables, but chokes on his words, deciding that the better course of action would be to wait a little while longer. If he messed this up… Raven’s putting away the last of the dishes and has returned the mop to the broom closet. It’s now or never.

“Hank seems like a nice young man,” he gets out before his nerves swallow him whole. Raven looks over at him and snorts. 

“Really? The nerdy guy?” 

“Yeah.”

“He is nice, he’s just a bit… You know, uptight.” Raven shrugs, coming to lean against the wall closest to where Charles was still working to scrub dried egg off the table. 

“Well, you know that kick-boxing place? On Accrochage street?” Charles prompts, briefly pausing his scrubbing to look up at the fiery redhead from the ground. 

“Yeah, I was thinking of going there actually.” 

“So you know of  _ The Beast _ ?” 

“The top fighter at the gym? Yeah, everyone in the community does.”

“Well, I think one of our regulars might. Be. Him.” Charles pontificates, a smile edging it’s way onto his face. Raven squints, internally going through the list of the Cafe’s regulars. 

“What? Hank? You can’t be serious?!” Raven full-out guffaws. “He couldn’t break a pencil with his bare hands!” Charles was in fact very serious, ever since he got his hands on the Accrochage kick-boxing club’s list of members and found a certain ‘Hank McCoy’ during lunch break. 

“You would be surprised,” Charles shrugs, and leaves off on that. Better to do as Alex said and ‘let them stew’. “Goodnight!” He calls over his shoulder and lets the glass door swing shut behind him, disappearing into the dark street. He’ll get the rest of the egg tomorrow morning. 

Thankfully, the walk back to his flat is lit up by street lamps. It’s a warm night, so he takes off his jacket and folds it over his arm. He stops at a street cart and examines today’s headline:  _ ‘Letter Arrives 30 Years Late’ _ . He was in no rush to get home to his empty flat, so he continued reading.  _ ‘A mailbag found by climbers on a glacier on Mont Blanc was part of a cargo lost in a plane crash in the late 1960s’. _ Charles handed over a few francs to the woman behind the till and carried on his way. He read the whole article avidly, almost getting run over on a crosswalk by a motorcyclist who shouts at him angrily. 

Charles tried to imagine receiving a letter thirty years late. One could only imagine… 

That Saturday, Charles spends most of his afternoon with Emma who, while still remaining slightly icy, has begun to warm up to the shy, bookish boy in the fifth floor flat. He shows her the photo booth man’s scrapbook (which he has kept safe on his bedside table ever since he found it), hoping that her creative, artistically-trained eye will catch something he has not.  

Together, they soon discover a man whose face shows up multiple times throughout the book. It isn’t the owner, and he’s scowling in every single photo. He has a square jaw, largely hidden by enormous mutton chops which, going upwards, gradually developed into an unruly mess of dark hair. In most of them he wears a dark leather jacket. 

“There he is again,” Charles points to a series of pictures, torn but glued back together on the upper right hand corner of the 47th page. Underneath in neat print,  _ ‘March 5 Gambetta’ _ is written. “How peculiar.” They turn the page. 

“Again,” Emma points out another series of torn photos, this time captioned with  _ ‘March 22 Porte Dauphine’ _ . “Who do you suppose he is? He’s quite handsome.” 

“Just looks rather angry to me,” Charles shrugs. 

“He’s in this book twelve times. Quite strange.” Emma mutters.

“Why keep taking your picture all over town only to tear them up and throw them away?” 

“Good ones, too.” 

“It must be some sort of ritual.” Charles hums. 

“He’s probably afraid of getting old. These pictures are his only consolation.” Emma examines her perfect white nails. 

“He’s dead.” Charles says, banging a fist on the table. 

“Dead?” Emma raises a perfectly manicured blonde brow. 

“He’s frightened of being forgotten. He wants to remind people of his face. Like faxing his portrait from the afterlife.” Charles grins. 

“A dead man scared of being forgotten… Ever thought of becoming an academic? That’s exactly the sort of thing my old professor of Modern European Literature would’ve say about this sort of thing,” Emma says, then gestures to the nearly-done painting. “Those guys over there have got it. They’re long dead, but will never be forgotten.” 

“The boy with the glass, maybe his thoughts are with someone else.” Charles shifts, gazing at the painting. 

“Somebody in the painting?” Emma asks, looking back. 

“No. More likely someone he saw somewhere, and felt an affinity with.”

“So, you mean to say that he’d rather relate to an absent person than build relationships with those around him?” She puts her hands on her hips. Charles shakes his head, shrugs, and makes a quick vague noise that sounds similar to ‘I don’t know’. “I  _ know _ you have something to say Charles. What’s stopping you?” Emma says cooly. 

“Maybe he tries hard to fix other people’s messy lives,” Charles chokes out. 

“What about him? What about his  _ own _ messy life? Who’ll fix that?” 

Charles doesn’t know. 

He sits up in bed that night, recording the Tour de France on his small television set and flipping through the scrap book. He falls asleep with it in his arms.

The next morning, he slips the recording under the mat in front of Emma Frost’s front door. When he stands, he notices a key still sitting in the lock of another door. 

Sebastian Shaw’s flat’s door. 

He doesn’t hesitate before he takes it out and hurries to the market to return it. A break-in would be terrible.

Sebastian and Azazel are behind the fruit and vegetable display as usual, Sebastian rambling on about something loudly to a customer while Azazel counts plums and carrots and places them carefully into their respective trays. 

“The trucker had 2.8 grams of alcohol in his blood! Hah! It makes me sick. Talk about employing irresponsible morons.” He all but growls. 

“Monsieur Shaw, I think you left your keys―”

“Hold on, Charlie, speed kills!” He slaps Azazel on the shoulder hard enough to make the Russian man wince. “Model yourself on Az here, no speedometer will ever catch him while he’s working, eh?” Azazel frowns and marches back into the store. Charles didn’t think he could possibly hate Sebastian Shaw any more. “Right, Charlie boy, what’ll it be today?” 

“Nothing.” Charles replies in a voice so cold it could rival Emma Frost’s. The keys burn in his hand as he stalks away. 

It doesn’t take too long to get a spare key cut. 

He puts Shaw’s original key back in the lock where he found it, but keeps the duplicate in his pocket for later. 

The next day, the clouds have fallen so low from the sky that they cling to the sides of tall buildings, creating a ‘pea soup’ atmosphere Charles thought could only occur in England. “Strange weather we’re having,” He says as he strides into Café de Sérénité. 

“You’re, like, the third person I’ve heard say that this morning. What the heck.” Raven squints, then peers out the window. “It’s just a little misty.” 

“We pass the time of day to forget how time passes.” Moira quotes, and takes a bite out of her pan au chocolat. 

“Lady, why do you always say weird shit,” Sean’s upturned palms supporting the weight of his face, his eyes reddened around the edges and bloodshot. Charles says, 

“Because she’s an academic,” at the same time as Alex says, 

“Because she’s weird.” 

Moira shakes her head, guzzling down her cortado. Charles catches Hank catching Raven staring at him, and both of them turn around quickly. Charles grins. 

After work, Charles is walking past the grocer’s when he’s struck motionless by the familiar bellows of Sebastian Shaw, who’s shouting at Azazel for one thing or another. 

“Where have you been? Look at the time!” He throws his arms in the air. Azazel is so startled that he drops the tray of grapefruits and they all fall to the ground, either bouncing or rolling along the gradual slope of the curb. “Ugh! Look what you’ve done now! Goddamn imbecile!” 

Charles’ resolve only grows stronger. He hurries up the stairs and uses the key he duplicated the other day to open Shaw’s flat door. 

First, he checks the size of the slippers which sit on the carpeted ground in front of the living room arm chair. Size 42. Then, he takes the liberty of shortening all of Shaw’s shoe laces with a pair of scissors he found in the kitchen cabinet. After that he goes to the bathroom and simply switches the places of the foot cream and toothpaste, which have very similar labels. He then switches the doorknobs to the bathroom so that the circular one is on the outside and the handle is on the inside. Quite a generous amount of salt is added to Shaw’s rum, the bedroom clocks are changed, and the front door is locked behind him like he was never there at all. 

Revenge is sweet. 

Sharon and Charles are sitting across from one another at the dining room table having a small lunch. Charles can’t remember the last time they ate together. Kurt was there earlier, but ran off to work before lunch. Charles counts his lucky stars.

“How’s work?” Mrs. Xavier asks, and Charles almost chokes on his tomato slice. 

“I-I-It’s fine, fine. Just the usual. Nothing out of the ordinary.” He stutters, the knife and fork shaking in his hands. 

“Hm. Meet any girls recently?” She asks, scrutinizing him from over the rim of her wine glass. Charles’ throat tightens. 

“No,” he says, “but I had three heart attacks, did heroine, and joined an anarchist group. We worship Satan on Wednesdays.” 

“Ugh,” Sharon makes a noise of disgust, “get out.” Charles doesn’t move a muscle, he thinks even his heart has stopped beating. “I said  _ get out _ !” She screams suddenly, standing up, the wine sloshing over the edge of her glass. The table’s legs squeal on the tile floor and the plate holding the salmon crashes to the ground. “Get out!” She screams, and Charles has never been more terrified in his life. She chases him out the door, throwing her glass at him. 

He runs. 

On his way home Charles sees flyers on the photo booth. They’re handwritten: just regular pieces of white printer paper with the words ‘lost’ and ‘bag’ and ‘photos’ written in the same neat handwriting that captions the photos in the album.

He tears one down and takes it home with him. 

The note sits on his bedside table as he sits cross legged above the covers and flips through the scrapbook. It says: 

LOST

Last seen in front of the north train station

A black box containing

ALBUM PHOTOS

If found call

(014)-887-2257

Thank you

 

Any normal person would call the number, meet him, return the album, and wait to see if his dream was viable. That’s called a Reality Check, and it’s the last thing Charles wants. 

Before he falls asleep, he thinks about what everyone else must be thinking. 

Emma Frost is painting the Luncheon of the Boating Party, her crystal-like blue eyes narrowed as she fixes the blue flowers in The Boy’s hat with a few dabs and strokes of one of her finest brushes. She’s thinking of the Tour de France, and how she missed it on television this year.

Sebastian Shaw is already asleep in his gigantic bed (Charles knows it’s gigantic because he’s been there, secretly) thinking of how much money the grocery has made and if he can go on vacation to Greece this spring if he saves up and cuts Azazel’s payment a bit. 

Azazel is thinking in Russian, which isn’t too much of a problem because when he was a child, Mr. Gabrielson taught both Latin and Russian, so although Charles is by no means fluent, he can understand the principles of the language. Azazel’s thinking about quitting his job at the grocer and leaving Shaw to scramble around, trying to catch up on all the work. Charles likes that idea. 

Charles falls asleep. 

He has a painting of a dog and a cat hanging up next to each other in his room. He never had the chance to have either when he was little because Brian was allergic and Sharon hated essentially anything that wasn’t herself, alcohol, or money. The cat is an intelligent-looking long-haired Siamese. She has blue eyes as clear as tide pools on the beach of a tropical island, and regal brows which arch up to pointed, alert ears. The dog next to her is an apricot-colored curly-haired Goldendoodle dog with a perpetual smile on his face, his pink tongue hanging out ever so slightly and his dark eyes squinting with what Charles always imagined was the joy of having another bowl of food laid out. 

When he’s fast asleep, the animals in the paintings turn to one another. 

“I say! Could he be falling in love?” The cat says, her head tilting to the side. 

“How could he, when he’s never even met the fellow?” The dog shuffles it’s front legs, leaning over has far as he could to try to catch a glimpse of the sleeping boy. 

“‘We accept the love we think we deserve’.” The cat quotes. 

***

Sebastian Shaw is dreaming of having a lavish vacation in Greece, lying on a yacht with martinis in each hand, when the shrill ringing of his alarm clock pulls him from the clutches of sleep and into the real world. He wakes with a start, his eyes opening wide as he reaches over with one hand to silence the clock.

Every morning he wakes at 6:45am so that he can get the most amount of sleep while also opening the grocery at the same time most people go downtown to get breakfast.

He stumbles to the bathroom door, the hazy residue of sleep clouding his vision. He reaches out to open the door, expecting the cold metal of the handle like every other morning. Instead, his hand falls through air, meeting nothing. He lifts his hand and tries again, but curiously, his hand doesn’t find the door handle―only emptiness. Sneering, he looks down, and jumps back when he sees that there is a circular doorknob where the handle usually is. He leans in close, mouth open, peering at the door knob. He grasps it in his hand, turns, and swings the door open slowly. Sure enough, the handle is on the other side of the door. Walking slowly past the door, he continues his morning routine.

Like any other morning, he squeezes some toothpaste onto his toothbrush. 

It doesn’t taste like double-fresh spearmint. 

He steps outside, his shoes tied with some extra string he found in his cupboard (for some reason all of his laces were obscenely short. Did his feet grow wider over night?). He walks down the deserted streets of Montmartre until he gets to the grocery, all the while rolling his tongue in his mouth and spitting on the ground, trying to work the foul taste of foot creme from his mouth. He wonders if The Cretin would notice if his paycheck lessened a bit. Once he gets to his grocery, he pushes down the button which slowly pulls up the metal grating with a deafening creaking noise which guards the store from vagabonds in the night. 

He checks his watch to make sure he can penalize The Cretin for being late. 

2:30am. 

He shrieks in frustration.

***

Azazel gets to work ten minutes early to avoid Shaw’s wrath. It’s a pleasant surprise to find that he’s the first one here―although it’s a bit strange that the metal grating that stays over the windows overnight is partially pulled up. He presses the button on the side of the building until the grating has disappeared beneath the red awning. 

He fills up the display trays with fruits and vegetables―red pepper, green pepper, cucumber, tomatoes, carrots, plums, snap peas, etc.―carefully placing them in their spots so that they wouldn’t get bruised. He’s about to bring out the cauliflower (which is always kept in the back room because of the high temperatures) when he sees something that simultaneously gives him what feels like a heart attack and a tumultuous roll of laughter.

***

Madeleine Wallace is buying carrots and tomatoes for her afternoon tea later that morning, only to find that Azazel stands alone at the checkout register. 

“Where’s the boss?” Madeleine asks, because she’s never seen a day when Shaw isn’t working―shouting―at the grocery. 

“Ssshhhhh…” Azazel smirks and presses a finger to his lips. “He’s sleeping in the cauliflower.” 

“What?!” 

“ _ Sleeping _ ,” Azazel whispered, with both hands in the air as to hush the noisy customer, “in the cauliflower.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles' stratagem begins.

Charles is making a flat white coffee in Café de Sérénité, which happens to be one of this favorites because of the myriad of patterns he can create in the froth, when Hank approaches Raven with a bouquet of flowers. 

There are Irises and Hydrangeas, just like Charles recommended, but the bouquet is also filled with powerful looking blue orchids that began black in the middle and fade to white at the edges, delicate lilac and pale purple columbines, and white vinca sprinkled throughout. Charles is almost jealous, what a wonderful display! 

Raven looks taken-aback when Hank pulls them out from behind him and presents them to her, a picture of confidence. Charles looks down to check on his brewing coffee for a second and when he looks back up, they’re gone. Alex somehow manages to look both disapproving and relieved at the same time. 

On his break, Charles uses the Café de Sérénité’s landline to call the number written on the flyer. It rings a few times, and panic wells up in Charles’ gut. What if the photo booth man think he stole his album? Or even worse, what if after this he never sees him again? Charles has no time to mull it over anymore, because a second later someone picks up the phone and says, in a dark and mysterious voice, 

“Porno Video Palace.”

“I’m calling about the ad,” Charles says, and then chokes, because he’s just processed what the man said. 

“You’re over 18?” The man replies. 

“Ye-uhm, yes.” 

“Shaved?” 

“ _ Sorry _ ?”

“Are you shaved? Fur pie doesn’t sell.” 

Charles has never hung up so fast in his life. He stands there with his shoulders up to his ears for a while before returning to his post at the coffee machine. 

***

Every Wednesday, Azazel delivers food from the grocery to people who either won’t, don’t, or can’t get them themselves. A cart of plums, carrots, cucumbers, etc. go to an old man who can’t walk down the cobblestone sidewalk very easily. A plastic bag of vegetables go a family who can’t be bothered to the the shopping themselves. And lastly, six bottles of sparkling water go to Emma Frost’s flat, as per request. Today, after he’s half-way done, he catches Madeleine Wallace on her way down the stairs.

“How’s life, Mrs. Wallace?” He says, his accent heavy but his words understandable. 

“I’ve got nothing to live for,” she groans, stomping down the stairs. 

“Come on, life’s great!” Azazel exclaims, rushing past her. 

“Dream on, kid.”

He frowns at the expression. He’s not a kid, he’s forty two years old. 

Emma Frost is his last stop. Balancing the delivery box on one hand, he rings the doorbell. While he waits, something under the doormat catches his eye. 

It’s a package. 

With a little bit of difficulty, he leans down to retrieve it while also holding onto the box of sparkling water. 

He wonders what it could be. 

Emma opens the door. 

“Zdrastvuite, Emma. I’ve got your water.” 

“Thank you, Azazel,” she says, opening the door wider. “Come on in.” 

The flat is as spotless as it was last week, and the week before that. Azazel wonders how she does it. Must be part of staying inside all the time. 

“Oh, before I forget,” Azazel hands over the package, “this was under your doormat.”

“Hmm, wonder what it is…” Emma turns it over in her hands, but doesn’t open it. Instead she puts it down on the bone-white counter. Azazel thinks this is the first time he’s ever seen anything on it. “Is Shaw still giving you trouble?” She says as he’s about to leave. 

“Not as much,” Azazel crosses his arms, leaning against the wall. “But something strange did happen the other morning.”

“What was it?” Emma raised a brow. 

“I arrived at work and found him sleeping in the cauliflower. At first, I thought it was some sort of foreign tradition. Perhaps a holiday I wasn’t aware of―but it turns out Shaw’s just a bigger moron than I thought,” he relayed, a-matter-of-factly. Emma burst out laughing, and Azazel was almost afraid. He’s never seen her laugh before. 

“That would be of Charles’ doing,” she sighs happily, wiping a tear from her eye. 

“The little blue-eyed one who never speaks? How do you know?” The most Azazel had ever heard Charles say was a ‘good morning’ or perhaps something about the weather. How could _ he  _ make Shaw sleep in a pile of cauliflower?

“I know everything that goes on in this block of flats,” Emma shrugs. 

After Azazel leaves to get back to work, Emma opens the package he found under her doormat. It’s a new VHS tape. She turns it around in her hands before putting it into her television set. It’s a recording of the Tour de France that she missed this year. 

***

At Café de Sérénité, Charles catches Raven and Hank staring at each other and smiling. He spends the rest of the day behind the counter making coffees, preparing tarts, and loading the dishwasher with a spring in his step so powerful Alex asks him why he’s skipping. 

Later, Charles is in Emma’s flat admiring the painting. The expressions of The Boy and the woman in the blue dress have changed, and although he assures her that they look fine, Emma still doesn’t think it’s finished. 

“Mulled wine and spice cookies,” Emma hands Charles a mug of his new favorite drink and lays a plateful of cookies on the table in front of him. 

“Thank you,” Charles smiles and bites into a cookie. 

“I think I was too hard on the boy with the glass. Tell me more about this man he likes. Have they met again?” The blonde woman asks, sitting down and taking a long sip of her own cinnamon wine. Charles bounces his leg. 

“No,” he says quietly. “They’re… into different things.” 

“Luck is like the Tour de France. You wait, and it flashes past you.” Emma levels him a stern yet friendly look, then snags a cookie from the plate. A small smile plays itself onto Charles’ face. “Catch it while you still can, Charles.”

Some time passes and Charles is standing in front of the Porno Video Palace in the dodgy side of town. There’s trash bunched up in the corners of the street and a foul smell in the air. The building is old and needs a fresh coat of paint, but is lit up by flashing lights and huge lettering that spells out things like:

SEXY GIRL

SEX SHOP

And

PEEP SHOW SPECTACULAR

Charles feels well and truly out of place in his collared shirt, cardigan, and jacket. He should have worn a disguise.

It’s now or never.

He pushes aside the curtain and steps inside, inconspicuously wiping his hand on his jacket afterwords. The store is dark, hot, and there’s a pulse of music Charles can’t find the source of. He walks up to the first shelf, which is completely stocked up to the brim with horrifyingly detailed dildos. He steps back and tries not to make eye contact with them. The center shelves are stacked with hundreds upon hundreds of VHS tapes and DVDs, all of which containing things Charles tries not to think about, lest he run away in fright. He’s here for a reason.

To the side, there’s a shelf full of handcuffs, leather crops Charles thinks would fit in better in an equestrian store, and leather… masks? He can’t tell. There’s an especially terrifying metal helmet with a pointed center so sharp it looks as though it could cut the wearer’s nose right off. Not very fashionable. 

He turns and almost runs directly into a blow-up doll wearing sexy lingerie. He jumps back, one hand on a shelf for balance and the other over his heart. Her painted face seems to be staring into his soul.

‘Help……. Me…..’ he imagines her saying in a strangled voice.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and backs away one step at a time. He keeps eye contact. If he turns away, she might come after him.

“Hello. Can I help you?” A feminine voice says. Charles spins around on his heel. It’s a  real woman  this time , her long wavy black hair done up in a high ponytail that cascades down her shoulders. With the heels she’s wearing she’s almost a foot taller than him, although admittedly most people are anyways. She’s wrapped in a butterfly-patterned dressing gown which leaves little to the imagination, and holding a tray of coffees in her hands. Charles thinks he can see the edges of some sort of tattoo on her shoulders.

“I found this in the street,” Charles says, pulling out the scrapbook. Better to get straight to the point unless they ask him if he want a job here or something.

“Ah, Erik will be so glad!” The woman gasps. “He was so miserable and uptight when he found out he lost it, I almost prayed to St. Anthony!” She smiles.

“Is… Erik here now?” Charles asks, holding the scrapbook close to his chest.

“No, on Wednesdays he works at the carnival.”

“How long has he had this collection?” He asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Oh, probably since I got him the job here last year. Before that, he worked nights and collected pictures of people’s footprints in wet cement. He’s a strange guy. He’s pretty moody when he doesn’t have a specific goal, you know? That’s why he started collecting things.” The woman explains. “When I met him, he was a Santa Claus for the mall. Can you believe it?!” Charles held in a laugh when he imagined the photo booth man (Erik!) dressed in a Santa costume. His waist is  _ far _ too skinny. “He’d do other things, like… collect coins. That’s pretty common, but he used to collect them and then turn them into mosaics. Like, glue them down into patterns and stuff. He sometimes collects abandoned materials from the mechanic down the street.”

“Gosh,” Charles said, laughing quietly and looking down. “Must be hard for his girlfriend.”

“Oh,” the woman laughs, “girlfriends, boyfriends, he doesn’t keep them long. He’s a bit of a loner, plus it’s hard to find someone who’ll put up with him.”

“Angel! Are those coffees coming?” Another employee shouts from across the store.

“Oh, I gotta go. Thanks for the album,” Angel reaches out―

“It’s okay, I have time to take it to the carnival.” Charles breaths out.

“Suit yourself,” Angel smirks, “he works the house of mirrors. Ask for Erik Lehnsherr.”

The carnival is mostly for the tourists, so while Charles has walked past it many a time, he’s never actually been inside. The ground is dusty and gravelly, and the sun beats down on his back. Charles ambles through the attractions, studying the brightly-colored wooden and plastic dinosaurs, horses, and monsters. 

He walks past a bicycle rack and notices a familiar sleek, black motorcycle parked on the edge. It’s Erik’s. He knows it.

He walks up to the colorful wooden toll booth. There’s a man with long dark hair standing behind the counter in a navy suit, counting cash. The nametag on his right suit pocket reads ‘Janos’.

“Is Erik here?” Charles asks, leaning over the counter and speaking loudly so he can be heard over the screaming children, music, and click-clacking of wooden and metal machines. Janos looks up.

“He doesn’t get out ‘till 7:00,” he says, barely looking up with a bored expression on his face.  

“Is there no way to see him before then?” Charles asks. 

“Sure,” Janos pointed to the prices glued to the wooden post, “20 francs.” 

Charles ends up coughing up the money and continuing on his way to the house of mirrors. It’s a small building, but he expects that it’ll feel larger once he gets inside. Although it’s hot and sunny outside, the house of mirrors is dark and cold. Charles squints in the dark, reaching out with one hand to try to feel for a wall. He read somewhere that if you always kept to the left wall in a maze, you’ll find the way out. 

Thick mist from a fog machine covers his feet and claws it’s way up his legs. There’s something hanging down from the ceiling, but Charles wants to keep his focus on what’s in front of him, so he resists the temptation to look up. 

He turns a corner, the last light peeking out from under the entrance from the outside disappearing from sight. There’s music―dark and ominous, typical of a haunted house or mirror maze. The lights are neon green, red, and blue. They flash in patterns, and sometimes Charles gets a view of his face (lips pressed together in a hard, straight line and eyes as wide as saucers) bathed in neon light in one of the mirrors. Once or twice, a loud noise rings out and he turns, only to run into the mirror image of himself. 

After he’s about halfway through (he was right, the maze is a lot longer than anyone would have thought from looking at the outside building) he gets the distinct feeling that he’s being followed.

He turns another corner, reaching around to feel with his left hand first. He shuffles around the mirror, the bizarre feeling of seeing ten more of him doing the same exact thing washing over him. 

There’s a figure in the corner. 

Charles knows that in mirror mazes, it’s custom for a carnival employee to dress up in a costume and scare whoever walks inside. The sight still almost scares him half to death. For a second he’s not sure which one is real, because there’s five of them. He’s wearing all black except for a red skeleton mask, it’s gaze focused on Charles. 

Charles, with his back pressed against the mirror wall, decides that it would be best not to provoke him, rather, he should get past him as quickly as possible. Of course, it’s a narrow hallway, so he’ll have to walk right in front of him to get past. 

The red skeleton doesn’t move a hair until Charles is right in front of him. Charles by then had whittled done all the possible actions of the skeleton.  _ Probably _ , he would either stay completely still and not do anything, or jump out when Charles stepped past him. 

Because Charles is dreading being jumped-out at, he stays nailed to the spot across from the skeleton for at least half a minute. He thinks he can see grey eyes inside the mask―

“BOO!” The skeleton moves extremely quickly, slamming his hand into the mirror just to the left of Charles’ face. Charles sucks in a breath, lets out a shriek, and runs out of the maze. As it turns out the last corner turned opened up to the exit. 

He thinks he can hear laughter chasing him out. 

***

Erik changes out of his costume as fast as possible, collects his things from his locker, and marches across the carnival. He’s glad he found this job―who knew scaring people could be so much fun?

“See you next Wednesday,” he nods at Janos, who sits in the air conditioned ticket booth all day. He’s about to jump on his motorcycle and head home when he notices something stuck on the handle bar. 

A note written on the back of a postcard of a blue-eyed Siamese cat and a joyous looking curly-haired dog. 

He picks it off, lifting it up to his face. 

‘5PM tomorrow. Montmartre carousel. Bring 5 francs.’ 

Erik reads it over three times, and then looks over his shoulder. He can’t see anyone but Janos in his booth, and it definitely wasn’t from him.

Erik goes to bed late, as usual. Only this time, he didn’t spend all his time fretting over his lost photo album. Tomorrow at 5PM… Who was it? He tapes the postcard to the small lamp on his bedside table so he won’t forget to bring five extra francs to work tomorrow, and gradually falls into the clutches of restless sleep.  

“Psst… Psst.  _ PSST _ !” 

Erik awoke with a start, reaching over to turn on his lamp. The cat and the dog are looking down at him from the postcard. 

“What?” He huffs, squinting his eyes and pulling his face back. “What―”

“Do you want to know about him?” The cat says, her regally arched brows rising even further. Erik pulls himself up, leaning most of his weight on his elbow. 

“You know him?” Erik asks, rather eagerly. 

“Of course!” The dog says, lifting it’s back paw to scratch it’s floppy ear. “Most of the time we’re paintings above his bed. He’s a sweet boy.”

“What does he look like?”

“Oh, not bad.” The cat says, flicking her tail. 

“Pretty,” the dog says. 

“Not bad,” the cat says back. 

“Beautiful,” the dogs says. 

“ _ Not. Bad _ ,” the cat turns her head, ignoring the dog’s further protests. 

“What does he want from me?” Erik asks. 

“He’s broke,” the cat says, narrowing her eyes, “he wants a reward for the album.” 

“Or he collects photos too,” the dog adds, and they both laugh. Erik grumbles and goes to turn the lamp off so he can go back to sleep. 

“No, you fool!” The dog and the cat say at the same time, their voices echoing together. Erik sighs and looks back up at them. 

“ _ What _ .”

“He’s in love,” the cat says. 

“I don’t even know him.” Erik shakes his head. 

“You do,” the dog argues. 

“Since when?” 

“Since always,” whispers the cat, “in your dreams.”

 

Tomorrow at 5PM Erik stands next to the Montmartre carousel with 5 francs in his pocket. Like yesterday the sun blazes hot and pigeons scurry across the ground searching for crumbs, occasionally taking off in large groups to chase after scared tourists. 

He waits. 

A phone rings nearby, but a woman picks it up. He isn’t above eavesdropping, so he listens to her conversation.

“Hello?” She says. “What? Oh!” And then suddenly, she's shouting at  _ him _ . “You, the man wearing the turtleneck!” 

“Me?” Erik looks around, then points to himself.

“Yes, you. It’s for you.” 

“...Thanks,” Erik takes the phone from the woman, who hands it to him with a confused expression on her face and then takes off down the road. He lifts the phone to his ear. “Hello?” There’s some muffled static, and then a voice on the other side. 

“Follow the blue arrows, Mr. Lehnsherr.” 

“Huh?” But they’ve already hung up the phone. Erik looks around, a baffled expression on his face. A few people sitting on wooden benches, a few walking around, and a few laughing on the carousel. But no one who looks like they might’ve just called him. He looks to the ground and sees a blue arrow. If he looks further, he can see another beyond that one, and another. With one last look around, he begins to follow them, the carousel music playing jovially in the background.

***

Charles peers around the side of the phone booth he called Erik from, a determined expression on his face. He turns around and fixes the collar of his blue jacket and pushes up his black sunglasses. After a deep breath, he looks back around. Erik is following the blue arrows, marching through crowds of pigeons. Whenever he reaches an arrow he barely hesitates before setting off to find the next. Charles forces his breath to even out and tries to lean casually up against the phone booth when Erik passes him, just three feet away. 

***

Erik walks up a hill, away from the carousel, following the blue arrows spray-painted onto the cement road. He reaches some steps―there’s another arrow―and jogs up them. He pauses a second at the top of the stairs. There’s an arrow constructed from sunflower seeds, which the pigeons happily munch at until Erik’s presence scares them away. He smiles. Who had time to do all this?

The next arrow points to another flight of stairs which Erik happily runs up, the jacket he’s wearing over his turtleneck swishing after him. He reaches the top slightly out of breath, but he doesn’t slow down. The arrows lead to a copper statue, faded to green overtime of a man in old fashioned clothing pointing into the distance. Erik brings a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun― _ he should’ve brought some goddamn sunglasses _ ―when a little boy tugs at his sleeve. Erik looks down at him, confused. The boy is wearing a Pink Floyd: The Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt, and has startlingly pale hair. 

“Don’t be the fool looking at the  _ finger _ that  _ points _ at the sky.” The boy says, and runs off rather fast. Erik feels like he’s just entered the Twilight Zone. He looks back at the statue's’ finger, and then looks over to what he’s pointing at. His eyes land on a tower viewer; a large set of coin-operated metal binoculars up another flight of stairs. He looks back at the statue which, to his surprise, winks at him.

Careful not to move the position of the tower viewer, he feeds it his five francs and presses his face to the binoculars. All the way down at the bottom of the hill, next to the carousel, is a short, brown-haired man wearing a blue jacket and black sunglasses. He’s next to Erik’s motorcycle, waving at him. Something’s in his hand… It’s Erik’s photo album!

Erik watches as the man puts the photo album on his motorcycle and starts to walk away. 

_ What?! No! _

“Wait!” Erik shouts, scaring pigeons and pedestrians alike, and takes off back down the stairs. He almost pushes someone down―“sorry!”―and grabs a hold of a lamppost, using his fast momentum to swing himself around the corner so he can continue to run down the stairs without stopping. He runs through a crowd of pigeons, not stopping when they erupt about him and fly off. 

Finally, he’s back at the carousel. He almost trips over three children playing jump-rope, but manages to regain his balance just in time.

He reaches his motorcycle and picks up his photo album, still in perfect condition like the day he lost it, and looks around. There’s no sign of the man who returned it. 

Suddenly, the phone booth nearest to him rings. 

“Hello?” He says, pressing the phone to his ear, the album still under his arm. 

“I know the stranger in the pictures, Erik,” the man says, “he’s a ghost. No one can see him. He only appears after the film has been developed. When someone gets their photo taken, he shouts ‘BOO!’ in their ears.” The sudden noise makes Erik jump.

“Who are you?” Erik tries to sound intimidating, but his curiosity and eagerness to  _ know who this is _ are clear. 

“Page 62,” the man says, and hangs up the phone. Erik listens to the dial tone for a second, his brow furrowed, before setting the phone back on it’s cradle. He opens his photo album, a rush of relief flooding through him as he flips through the familiar pages. Then he reaches page 62. There are four black and white photos, and unlike the rest of the pictures that fill up the pages of this book, they’re not ripped or torn. In fact, they’re all in perfect condition. Similar to the rest of them, these pictures have been taken in a photo booth. They’re also all of the man who returned the album.

In the first picture, the man’s outstretched palm covers his face. All Erik can make out is some unruly wavy hair, a long, slim neck and a jacket collar. On the man’s palm ‘do you’ is written in black marker. 

In the second picture, the man’s back is to the camera with his hands clasped behind him, but Erik can see his face is turned slightly to the side, as if he was waiting for the light to flash. The word ‘want’ is written on his arm. 

The third picture is a silhouette of the man’s face turned ¾ to the right with the words ‘to meet me’ written in black in the background.

In the fourth picture, the man is wearing enormous black sunglasses and a cowboy hat. He’s smiling in this one, holding up a piece of paper with a question mark on it. 

**Do you want to meet me?**


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A letter, a picture, and a meeting.

Charles is walking up the stairs to his flat when he notices that Madeleine Wallace’s door is open. He pauses, making sure no one is home or in the stairwell, and then enters. 

The letters aren’t hard to find, all Charles had to do was find the cupboard whose handle was the most worn down.

Back at the Café de Sérénité, Raven is sitting with Hank on her lunch break. Today, her red hair is pulled up into a messy yet still artfully crafted bun with a few wavy locks framing her face, a blue flower behind her ear. Charles makes an absolutely perfect latte for Moira, who drinks it in three gulps, says something about a publishing deadline, and leaves. Alex is on the ground trying to fix the dishwasher, which has been acting up over the last few days. Sean―who hadn’t slept a wink the night before to smoke weed with a few pals on the fire escape outside his flat―is trying to see how many mints he can eat before feeling sick. He started feeling sick a long time ago, but he just can seem to stop himself.  

***

Back at the Porno Video Palace, Erik is interrogating Angel. 

“What’s he like? What’s his voice like? How well do you know him?” He asks, finishing up the stock of the back counters and swaggering over to lean over the glass counter. “What’s his name?” Angel huffs out a laugh.

“He didn’t say what his name was.” 

“Dammit,” Erik pinches the bridge of his nose and looks up again. “What  _ do _ you know?”  

“Well, he’s short.” She continues opening returned VHS tape boxes to make sure they’re in working order and then putting them in a bin so that they can be put back on the shelves. Erik rolls his eyes.

“I know  _ that _ . It’s kind of hard not to notice how small he is.” 

“Do you want to know more, or not.” Angel crosses her arms and raises a brow. 

“Okay, okay. Go on.” Erik resigns, raising his hands in faux surrender. 

“Easy on the eyes, for his type,” She continues opening the tapes. 

“What’s his type? What type is he?” 

“Ugh, I don’t know, Erik! English?” 

“ _ Ah _ ,”

“Do you want to know more―”

“Yes.”

“He has brown hair, pale skin with a few freckles, and by god the bluest eyes I have  _ ever _ seen. And I’ve seen a lot of blue eyes. I remember him casually asking about your girlfriend,” she adds nonchalantly. 

“And?”

“I told him you weren’t interested at the moment. That’s right, isn’t it?” She shrugs, “I mean, you sound pretty interested right now.”

“What! Why would you do that?” Erik groans, letting his head fall onto the counter with a thump. 

“Come on, you don’t even know him,” Angel snaps open a VHS tape box titled ‘Shaving Ryan’s Privates’.   

“Exactly,” Erik frowns at her, “It’s the mystery.”  

***

At the grocery, an old man asks for a pound of nectarines. 

“The ones here are the prettiest,” Azazel says, bestowing the old man with a bag full of perfectly circular sunset-orange nectarines. The Russian man smiles contently until Shaw swings around the shop’s green doorframe, a cruel grin plastered across his face.

“Wow, he’s an artist now,” he rolls his eyes, “this boy’s as useless as a vegetable.” He laughs, squeezing the plum in his hand until it bruises under his fingers and then tossing it carelessly into the tray. Azazel huffs and continues taking the customer’s orders. Charles crosses his arms and bites his tongue, a spectacular frown on his face. It seems like his last escapades weren’t enough. 

***

Charles steps into Shaw’s flat, closes the door quietly behind him, and pulls on some yellow rubber gloves over his hands and the forearms of his blue jumper. After his first trip to Shaw’s flat, he picked up some slippers from the store identical to the ones Shaw keeps in front of his living room arm chair except for the fact that they’re a few sizes too small. He switches the slippers, careful to put Shaw’s in his rucksack. He’ll return them. Someday. He ambles into Shaw’s bedroom and sticks a pin he found in an old sewing kit he discovered in his cupboard through the cord of his bedside table alarm clock, then pulling the plug out of the wall-socket. That’ll give him a nice surprise. Then, he switches the lightbulbs in Shaw’s two bedroom lamps, for one is just barely noticeably brighter than the other. Lastly, he sneaks up to the landline and replaces some of the numbers on speed dial. 

Charles leaves the flat, locking the door behind him like he was never there―at least, not as far as Shaw knows. 

***

Unbeknownst to him, Emma Frost has the perfect view of Sebastian Shaw’s flat from her own kitchen window. She huffs out a small laugh and continues running the paint-covered bristles of her paintbrushes under the sink faucet. 

“We’re all rooting for you, Charles,” she mutters to herself, setting the clean paintbrush down. 

***

That night Charles sits at his desk, surrounded by Madeleine Wallace’s late (ex?) husband’s love letters. There’s hundreds of them. Excellent. He skims all of them, and thanks to his refined and therefore rapid reading pace he gets through them rather quickly. It’s lucky he’s such an avid reader, or this project might have taken weeks. He then writes out a rough draft with the letter’s general syntax and themes and catalogues all the different words he’ll need to go back and find. 

“‘Darling Madeleine, I miss you more and more each day’…” Charles reads his draft out loud to himself, spinning around in his chair. “No, ‘ _ My _ darling Madeleine, I miss you’… Very good, good enough, yes.” Charles pulled the pencil out from behind his ear and writes down the correction. “‘I’m an exile in a world of dreary khaki’. Hah!” Charles laughs, then sighs. “I need more words…” He goes through the original letters once again. “‘I can’t eat, I can’t sleep… This camp was the biggest mistake of my life… depriving myself of my beloved for five long weeks… I think of you endlessly. Your Adrien.’ So that’s your name.” Charles mutters to himself. 

The next day, Charles photocopies all the letters he’s using at the local library. As soon as he gets home he fetches the scissors and glue, sits on the carpeted ground in front of his living room coffee table, rolls up the sleeves of his grey cardigan, and gets to work. He cuts out all the words he needs, and then glues them down on a separate piece of paper. Once he finishes, he returns to the library to photocopies it. With some careful handling, a bucket of water, and about ten tea bags, he succeeds in making the paper resemble an antique relic. Proud of this work, he hangs it up with clothespins in his kitchen and dries it with a hairdryer. 

***

Sebastian Shaw steps into his flat after a long day’s work. He of course left The Cretin at the grocery to close shop―the idiot deserved it with the amount of time he wasted being so slow. He sits down heavily in his arm chair and reaches down to slip on his slippers. For some reason, his big toe hits the end of the slipper before his heel is even in. He huffs in annoyance, curses his apparently fast-growing feet, and sacrifices the comfort of his pointer and thumb finger in order to ply his slipper on. By the time both slippers are on, he’s out of breath and sweating from both exertion and frustration. He steps into his bedroom like a penguin, courtesy of the too-small slippers, and flicks on the light. He squints and rubs his eyes when one side of the room seems brighter than it usually is. He steps cautiously into the room, and spies the cord of his alarm clock lying unplugged on the ground. He goes over to it and crouches down, plugging it back into the wall. A loud bang courses throughout the room and a shower of sparks rain down on him. 

Shaw lets out a scream of surprise that racks the block of flats like an ambulance’s siren and falls on his backside, scrambling to get away from the sparks. He grabs a pillow from his bed and vigorously swats at the section of his alarm clock’s wire that has caught fire.

He sits in his kitchen, his landline in his shaking hands. After ten minutes of hesitation, he presses the speed dial to call his mother. She’ll know what to do, she always does. 

“Hello,” an unfamiliar voice says on the other side of the phone, “psychiatric helpline, how may I help you?” Shaw drops the phone, and it dangles from the wall by it’s cord. “Hello? Hello? Are you there?” He ends the call with a push of a button, the ringing in his ears intensifying. 

Shaw shuffles over to his liquor cabinet. Only one thing can help him now, and her name is Mexican Tequila de Agave. He pours himself a glass―his unsteady hands causing some of the tequila to slosh over the side of the glass and run down his finger―and swigs it down in one gulp. 

There’s an unfamiliar taste to the usually powerful yet sweet drink. It claws it’s way down his throat, stings his nose, and sticks to the roof of his mouth like tar. He feels like he’s just taken a gulp of salty ocean water. He spits it back up all over the floor. 

Something is seriously wrong.

***

That weekend Charles goes to the subway on autopilot. Only once he’s there does he remember that he doesn’t want to see his mother that weekend. A part of him wishes that she’ll be horrified with her behavior, and beg Charles to come back to her, but he knows she won’t. She probably won’t even notice if he doesn’t come to visit her.

He’s walking towards the exit when a bright color catches his attention. He looks, and it’s him. It’s one of the pictures he took of himself in the photo booth and then glued in Erik’s album. It’s the one of him wearing gigantic sunglasses and a cowboy hat, smiling widely, holding up a piece of paper with a question mark scrawled across it printed on neon yellow paper. He tears it down. Written across the bottom in Erik’s familiar neat handwriting is ‘Where & When?’

He find 43 more throughout the subway, taped to the wall, all printed on different colored neon paper. He tears them all down, lest someone recognise him. 

One hour later, on Boulevard St. Martin, Charles walks into a party and costumes shop. He grew up watching the Zorro television show, so the black mask, hat, and cape call out to him the most.

At the same time, a man with a permanent scowl, unique hair, and a leather jacket leaves his home on Rue Lecourbe.

26 minutes later, Charles is at East Station. 

Simultaneously, the man in the leather jacket parks outside. 

The time is exactly 11:40. 

Charles hops in the photo booth, puts on his costume, and feeds the machine some of his pocket change. 

The man walks towards the photo booth. 

After the camera has flashes and the pictures have been taken Charles takes off his hat, mask, and cape, stowing them safely away in his rucksack. He pulls away the booth curtain, and stands, eyes wide, when he sees the ghost from Erik’s scrapbook. 

It’s him, it must be him. He’s got the same square jaw, mutton chops, and an angry frown on his face that seems to be directed at nobody in particular. 

At this precise moment, only Charles has the key to the riddle that is the mystery man. He looks the man up and down, and grins. The man narrows his eyes.

*** 

Back at the block of flats, Madeleine Wallace receives a letter from the postman. She’s alarmed when it isn’t just a bill. She opens it and reads quietly to herself:

“Dear Mrs. Wallace, we recently recovered a mailbag that was lost in a plane crash on October 12, 1969, on Mont Blanc. We are forwarding the enclosed letter to your address with our apologies for the uncustomary delay. 

  * Jacques Grasjeau, Customer Services” 



Madeleine Wallace totters back to her flat on autopilot and sits down at her kitchen table to read the letter:

“My darling Madeleine, I’m in exile. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. I think of you endlessly. I know I’ve made the worst mistake of my life. I turned down that woman’s money. If all goes well, I’ll soon be able to afford a house. I dream of better times ahead when you’ll forgive me and join me here one orange-colored day. Your everloving Adrien.” 

Madeleine Wallace finished reading the letter, brown and wrinkled by age, and promptly bursts into tears, both sad and joyful. She kisses the framed photograph of her Adrien that hangs in her kitchen, then cleans it with windex and a cloth until it shines.

*** 

Azazel lets himself into Emma’s apartment with the day’s sparkling water. She’s predictably sitting at her painting. 

“Another package for you,” he says, carefully setting down the tray of neatly arranged glass bottles on the kitchen counter and then handing over a small cardboard box he had found under her doormat.

“Thank you,” Emma takes it from him, looks at it for about two seconds, and then places it on the counter next to the water.

“You heard about that old lady who cries all the time? Madeleine Wallace?” Azazel asks. “She got a letter. From her dead husband. Forty years after he sent it. Isn’t that absurd?” He exclaimed. “Nice for her though. To finally get some closure.” Emma smiles and shakes her head. Once he leaves, Emma opens to package. It’s another VHS tape. She puts it into her television set and watches as a series of images take over the screen. 

A professor lecturing a classroom. A cowboy wrestling a cow. A horse show. She smiles. 

“Thank you, Charles.”

*** 

Erik drives his motorcycle to the nearest metro station and redoes his posters. Someone keeps tearing them down, and he has a distinct feeling he knows who. After he tapes the last one―a neon green piece of paper with the man’s photo across the front stuck to the wall next to the train arrival and departure times―he peers under the photo booths with a metal ruler to see if there are any disgarded photos for his collection. Finding only a few ripped-up pieces, puts the pictures into his bag, goes to the next subway station, and does the same. He does this at five stations, collecting multiple scraps of abandoned photographs but no sign of the man he’s looking for. 

When he’s got free time at his job at the Porno Video Palace, he stands behind the glass counter and puts the ripped photos he found back together. Today, he has three sets of scraps. The first is a young lady who obviously didn’t like the way her photos came out. The second is a man wearing a Zorro costume―

Erik freezes. 

It’s him. 

He’s wearing all black, a hat mask and cape, but he would remember that nose, mouth, neck, and pair of eyes anywhere. He’s holding up a sign that says:

‘Café de Sérénité at 4PM’

Erik tilts his head back and laughs. A customer gives him an odd look, but doesn’t say anything. He marches down to the back room where Angel is taking stock of some of their products. 

“Angel, could you stand in for me at 4:00 today?” He asks, leaning in the doorway. Angel looks down at her wristwatch. 

“4:00 is in half an hour. Seriously?” She said, rolling her eyes. 

“Please. I’ve got… a commitment.” 

“Ugh, fine. But you owe me!” Angel calls after Erik, who’s already halfway down the street. 

***

Charles scrubs down a window table in Café de Sérénité, glancing at the clock every two seconds. It’s almost 4:00. 

Raven and Hank are talking about judo in the corner, while Sean and Alex bicker about the many different and diverse uses for hemp. Moira looks like she hasn’t slept in a hundred years and is on her fourth expresso. Charles is very quickly losing his nerve. 

Erik is ten minutes late. Charles moves over to his place behind the bar and begins drying mugs. He can only think of two explanations. 1- he didn’t find the photo, or 2 - he was run over by a car before he could reassemble it. While Charles is in the middle of deciding what to wear to Erik’s funeral, the man himself steps into the cafe. Charles freezes as Erik walks past him, completely unaware, and sits down at the window table he just finished scrubbing down. He resumes drying the mug in his hands. 

“What can I get for you?” He hears Raven asking him.

“Coffee, please.” Erik replies in that lilting German-Irish accent Charles has been thinking of ever since he first heard his voice. 

“One coffee,” Raven calls over to Charles, who instantly starts making one of the best coffees he’s ever made. The door opens again with a ring of the bell which dangles on it’s hinges, and a man walks in. Charles watches Erik watch the man walk over and sit next to a woman on the other side of the cafe. Charles huffs and hands Raven Erik’s coffee.

“Here’s your coffee,” Raven sets the mug down in front of Erik.

“Thanks,” he says distantly. Is he wondering where Charles is?  _ Who  _ Charles is? Charles silently walks over and stands directly behind the glass separating the booth Erik’s sitting in from the next. He looks down at the back of his neck for a second before blinking rapidly and writing the day’s specials with erasable marker on the glass in neat, loopy writing. 

Erik turns around at the sound of the squeaky marker. 

Charles determinedly does not look back at him, instead focusing on his writing. Erik continues to stare. Oh, god, does he recognize him? Erik turns back around and Charles internally explodes, both relieved and disappointed. He closes his eyes, opens them, and continues to write down the menu. He focuses on the words he writes on the glass, his eyes narrowing in on the script until that’s all he sees. No extremely handsome man sitting an inch away, just SOUPE A L’OIGNON  ―

“Excuse me,” Charles jumps about a foot into the air when Erik knocks on the glass separating them, “is this you?” He’s holding up the picture Charles took wearing the Zorro costume. He’s glued it back together. Charles  _ knows _ Erik already knows it’s him. He’s probably asking out of courtesy. Still, he feels like there’s a porcupine in his stomach, clawing it’s way up his throat. He smiles politely, although he’s sure it looks more like a wide grimace. 

This is the perfect opportunity to say  _ yes! My name is Charles Francis Xavier, I love your work―do you want to get a coffee sometime?  _ Instead he inevitably seizes up. 

“Uhm, no.” He says. Erik looks down at the photo, then back at Charles, and grins with way too many teeth.

“Yes, it’s you.” He says, still grinning a mile wide. The words  _ yes, yes it’s me! _ lie dormant at the pit of his stomach, underneath the metaphorical porcupine. He’s only making it worse but he can’t. He doesn’t know why, but he can’t. He makes a choked noise, which afterwards he feels desperately embarrassed of, shrugs helplessly, and dashes away. He stands at the back of the cafe, his shoulders up to his ears, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

Why can’t he talk to people like a  _ normal goddamn person _ ?! 

Raven walks past him, and he grabs her elbow. She looks back at him, confused. He still can’t bring himself to say anything, so he takes his notebook out from his back pocket, takes out the pencil he always keeps behind his ear, scribbles down a note, folds it, and points to Erik (who sits still facing forward, oblivious to this whole ordeal). 

Raven understands. Of course she does, thank goodness for Raven.

Nodding fiercely, she takes the note from Charles and skillfully slips it in Erik’s jacket pocket while she collects his empty coffee cup. 

Charles smooths the wrinkles out of a tablecloth, peers around to check on Erik, and turns back around instantly when he sees Erik staring at him. The next time he looks around, Erik is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're drawing near to the end of this story--but a lot still has to happen! Thank you so much to everyone, and I hope you enjoy :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We accept the love we think we deserve."

Charles and Emma sit in front of the painting once again. 

Everytime he looks at it, he finds something new to appreciate. He doesn’t know whether this is because the intricate details are sometimes be so small that they lie hidden without thorough inspection, or because Emma is constantly going back to revise and repaint her work. Either way, the lively yet calm scene of the boating party, brimming with rich shades of yellow, red, blue, and green, never ceases to astound him. 

“So it’s this man here, in the brown suit and hat?” Emma point to the figure delicately with the end of her brush. 

“Yes.” Charles answers. 

“Ah. Is he in love with him?”

“Yes.” Charles looked straight ahead, avoiding Emma’s scrutinizing gaze. 

“I think it’s time he took a real risk.” She says, tilting her head so that a few blonde curls fall from behind her sophisticated diamond-pierced ears. 

“He might. He’s devising a stratagem.” 

“He’s fond of stratagems.” Emma tucks her hair back behind her ear. 

“Yes.”

“The fact is, he’s cowardly. That’s why I can’t capture his look.”

Charles goes back to his flat and spends the rest of the night reading Albert Camus’  _ The Plague _ . He is a coward, he knows it. Millions of opportunities to be happy pass him by everyday and he can never work up the courage to just reach out and grab them. He isn’t quarantined, stuck in a disease-infested town like Dr. Bernard Rieux is in  _ The Plague _ , for goodness’ sake. 

The next day Charles pays the metro photo booth a visit. It’s about time his stratagem commences. He feeds the machine bottle caps instead of coins until he’s sure it’s thoroughly jammed. He then calls the maintenance from a phone booth nearby. 

“Excuse me, I think your photo booth is out of order, uhh, it seems to be jammed,” he says, holding the phone up to his ear. Mixed feelings of anticipation and excitement well up inside of him like they always do when he’s far enough away from a confrontment to feel at ease, but close enough to see the plan beginning to take hold. “I’m at the east station ticket hall.”

*** 

Erik is milling around at work. He’s stacked the shelves, taken stock, and swept the floor. It’s a slow day at the Porno Video Palace. His stomach emits a low rumble, and he suddenly regrets skipping lunch. He wanders the aisles, trying to distract himself from his empty stomach and snorting every time he sees something especially uncomfortable-looking or explicit. He knows he works here, but some items the store sells never stop surprising him. He reaches the end of one of the shelves, which is stocked with all sorts of strange outfits and accessories. He taps a metal helmet which resembles something of phallic nature, whether intentional or not he will never know, and sighs when his stomach rumbles again. Maybe he’s got some left-over mints or something from that Chinese restaurant he grabbed take-out from. Expecting either nothing or the metallic wrapper of a candy, he squints in confusion when his fingers brush against paper instead. He pulls the paper out carefully.  

‘Photo booth. East station. Tuesday 5PM.’

“Hah!” Erik barks, “who  _ are _ you?” He rushes down the hall, his feet pounding heavily against the floor, running into Angel on the way. 

“Erik? Why are you running? You sound like a herd of elephants―”

“Hey Angel, thanks for standing in for me the other day,” he blurts out hurriedly. 

“Oh no problemo, but you owe―”

“I need another favor. Can you stand in for me at 5:00PM today?” 

“ _ What _ ?!” 

“I think I’m in love.” 

Erik reaches the photo booth just as the clock strikes five. There’s someone in there already, having their picture taken. He can see the lights flashing in bursts from behind the crimson curtain. Erik looks around―no sign of  _ him _ . A series of pictures fall out of the dispenser. Erik freezes. He feels as though time slows around him and all sound halts to a stop. No echoing robotic announcements broadcasting train arrivals and departures, no suitcase wheels trailing behind clicking heels on the marble floor, nothing. It’s the man that has appeared in his album twelve times. The square jaw, mutton chops, frown, and leather jacket fits the bill. He picks up the photos, examining them. It’s the mystery man, the ghost. He’s almost afraid to look, but he grasps the corner of the curtain tightly in his hand and draws the fabric back slowly. The same man looks up, a perpetual frown etched across his face. 

“I’ll be done in a second,” he says, his voice terse and gruff. He’s putting tools away in a toolbox that sits on the bench nestles inside the booth. A toolbox. 

The mystery man was not a ghost, nor a man afraid of aging and being forgotten, but simply the repairman, a normal technician doing his job. 

Erik smiles so wide his face hurts, and hands the photos to the man―Logan, his nametag reads in blocky, bold red lettering―who gives him an odd look, rips up the photos, throws them in the trash, and then strides away. Erik takes a few steps forward, grinning after him. Logan takes one look back and frowns, stomping away a bit faster.  

***

Charles can see Erik on the other side of the station diffing around in the bin, no doubt to collect the newly-ripped photos of Logan the normal repairman. He takes a step forward. Then another. And another. He’s going to walk up to him, and he’s going to talk to him. Charles is almost there when he chokes, his mind drowning in all the ways this could go wrong, and he freezes. He shuts his eyes tightly, a stream of commuters rushing to catch the afternoon train home bustling between them. When he opens his eyes again, Erik is gone.

*** 

As soon as he makes up it up to Angel for his recent unexpected excursions (A.K.A standing in for her during her morning shifts) and gets free time, Erik goes to Café de Sérénité. He’s disappointed when, after a cursory sweep of the cafe, there is no sign of  _ him _ . He waits until the redhead waitress comes to take his order, and then surreptitiously shows her the note. 

“Excuse me, did you put this in my pocket?” He whispers. The redhead frowns, as if she’s waging an internal battle. 

“Yes, but it’s not from me.” She eventually replies, her voice just as low. 

“I know, where is he?” 

“Today’s his day off. He’s probably at home, reading, or something. I can tell you more when I get off from work. Can you meet me here later? 7:00PM?”

“Yes, thank you so much. This means a great deal to me.” Erik says, formally shaking the woman’s hand. “I’ll see you at 7:00PM.”

***

After a long, calm day curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket with Voltaire’s  _ Candid  _ and a cup of tea, Charles decides to visit Café de Sérénité. It’s his day off, but he enjoys working there. Half an hour couldn’t hurt. And he feels like a cappuccino. He’s just a man visiting the cafe where he works for a coffee on his day off. That isn’t sad is it? Of course not. He walks in on Hank flipping Sean onto a table while Raven cheers in the background. Alex his silently shaking his head in the corner, but doesn’t look like he’ll make a move to stop it anytime soon.

“What’s going on?” Charles asks. No one looks surprised to see him come in on his day off. 

“Hank is demonstrating a new Aikido move he learned. Isn’t that sick?!” Raven shouts. 

“Eeehehaggghhh,” Sean gurgles, his head hanging limply off the side of the table. 

“Neck choke!” Raven roars, laughing. 

“Okay, okay Hank let him down.” Alex waves both arms, suddenly deciding he doesn’t want a lawsuit on his hands. 

“Alright.” Hank releases him and Sean falls to the floor. 

“Ah!” Raven looks at the clock, “I’ve gotta go! Charles, clean up tables one through seven for me, kay? Thanks!” She gives Hank a peck on the cheek and rushes out, the doorbell ringing after her. 

“Where’s she going in such a rush?” Charles asks, grabbing a rag to scrub down Raven’s tables. 

“I dunno, some guy. The one who always wears turtlenecks,” Alex says. Charles turns around slowly, a grim expression on his face. 

“Turtlenecks?” His voice cracks. 

“Oh it’s nothing, she told me,” Hank interjects. “I was kinda, uhm, yeah, but she said he’s just a friend.”

“Oh, okay.” Charles says, getting back to scrubbing the tables. He tries not to ruminate on what Raven and Erik are talking about, but naturally, his mind refuses to think about anything else.

*** 

Erik and Raven are taking a walk around town. 

“I’m worried about Charles. I think I have been for a long time. He’s incomprehensibly smart. Like really, really smart. I’m pretty sure he would’ve graduated valedictorian and got, like, ten PhD’s if his crazy parents didn’t keep him locked up when he was a kid,” Raven says, stuffing her hands into her pockets. 

“Crazy parents?” Erik raises a brow. 

“Oh, it’s kind of personal. Like, Charles should be the one to tell you. But he had a tough childhood, a lot of emotional baggage. And I feel bad, because he’s such a sweet, kind person. He just finds it hard to connect―to relate to other people, you know?” 

“Yes, I understand,” Erik replies grimly. 

“He can be a little arrogant sometimes, because he knows he’s smarter than everyone. But… He’s so worth it. And I want to make sure you deserve him.”

“I hope I do.”

***

Charles gets back to the block of flats late. He had waited outside the cafe’s large glass windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of Raven or Erik, but neither of them came back that way. He tried not to let it get to him, but his heart grew heavier every step of the way home. 

Madeleine Wallace calls after him about a letter she received from her deceased husband, and how it’s proof he still loved her at the end of his days. Charles’ heart warms a bit, but he’s too tired to listen to her prattle on―his shoulders are strung high with tension, his feet feel heavy as lead, and every time he blinks it takes a little more effort than usual to get them open again―so he pretends he doesn’t hear her and runs up the stairs. 

He wants to fall onto the couch and sleep forever, but his mind is racing one hundred miles per hour. The sofa’s feet slide back a few inches across the wooden floorboards after he all but flings himself down, fully intending to have a self-deprecating couch nap before a late dinner. He ends up staying amongst the navy throw pillows for only a second before he’s stomping into the open-plan kitchen, running a hand through his tousled messy hair.

The thought of  _ Erik  _ courses through his mind like an unstoppable river. He can't stop  _ thinking  _ about him. His grey-green eyes, short brown-gingery hair, his strong, kind voice. What is he doing now? Is he happy? What is he thinking about? Is he thinking about  _ him _ ?

Charles puts both hands on the kitchen counter and bows his head, sighing. He needs to  _ stop _ . 

During the summer, the cafe makes little tarts. Beautiful things, really. The customers enjoy them and the tourists always seem so delighted when they see them sitting behind the glass display. The recipe is surprisingly complicated for such a small pastry, but that's exactly why Charles loves to make them. They require a high level of attention and commitment, things most of the employees―although his friends―don't really possess when it comes to tiny fruit tarts. 

He slams the kitchen cupboard doors open. He has the ingredients, and he needs something to keep Erik off his mind. This is perfect. 

He dusts the top of the counter with flour and presses the dough down, watching as a poof of flour rises up into the air. He pauses to roll the sleeves of his light blue collared shirt up to his elbows. He kneads the dough, thinking only of how hard to push down and what the next steps of the recipe are. The muscles in his arms and hands eventually begin to cramp and ache from the seemingly never-ending cycle of press down, roll, pick up, press down, roll, pick up. He ignores it, pushing through and taking short breaks every few minutes to shake out his hands until the dough is ready to refrigerate. 

While the dough sits in the fridge, Charles gets started on the fruit filling. He day-dreams, imagining him and Erik eating the tarts together on the balcony, watching the sun rise. The air would be crisp, but not too cold. Each passing minute the sun would climb higher into the sky and more rays would shine down on them and the cobblestone street below. Erik would be wearing one of his dark turtlenecks anyway, no matter the temperature. Maybe they would have a cat or a dog or both, curling around their ankles. A regal Siamese and a jovial Goldendoodle, like the paintings that hang above his bed. He laughs to himself, because it’s absurd. Why would Erik want to be with him? He can’t even  _ speak _ to him. Plus he could never make himself get up early enough to watch the sun rise.

All of a sudden, his eyes begin to burn uncontrollably and he feels tears well up, threatening to spill over. His mouth turns downwards on it’s own accord, and he tries not to blink because if he does he’ll start crying and he won’t be able to stop. He sniffles, trying to even out his breathing. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, but that’s probably just made it worse―

The doorbell rings. 

Charles looks up, startled, his blue eyes red around the edges and tear-streaks marring his pale cheeks. He rubs his face with his forearm and moves to answer the door. Hopefully it’s just Madeleine Wallace so he can tell her he’s busy and get on with making these bloody tarts. 

“Charles?” A voice calls out from behind the door. Charles stops in his tracks, frozen in place. The voice is strong and deep, lilting on certain vowels. He doesn’t need to even try to regulate his breathing because all of a sudden his lungs aren’t working. He steps towards the front door as lightly as possible, avoiding all the squeaky floorboards. “Charles?” Erik calls out again. Charles presses his ear against the door. Erik does too, on the other side. Charles hears the faint rustle of pencil against paper, and then shuffles back as quickly as possible without making a sound when something slides under the door. It’s a note:

‘I’ll be back’

Charles holds it in his hands, listening to the sound of Erik slowly descending the staircase. He still has time. He grasps the doorknob in one hand, turning it until it clicks, but keeps the door pressed firmly into the doorframe. He has time. 

He has time. 

He’s frozen in place until he hears nothing. He releases the doorknob. It spins and clicks back into place. He moves across the room to the window, pulling away the navy curtains in time to see Erik crossing the street. The man looks up at the window and Charles  _ swears _ that he sees him. He releases the curtains like they’re on fire and steps back. 

The telephone rings, the shrill jingle filling his flat.

If Charles had any energy left, he would have jumped. Instead, he stumbles over to the phone and presses it to his ear, closing his eyes and letting his head roll to the side. 

“Go to the bedroom, Charles.” Emma hangs up. Charles listens to the droning buzz of the dial tone for a moment before he lets his eyes, hot with tears, crack open. He delicately sets the phone back into it’s cradle and squints in confusion. He goes to his room, opening the creaking door with a gentle push of an open palm. 

His television set has been decorated with red and brown candles, all different shapes and sizes, their small flames dancing in the dim light. He takes the remote control from his bedside table and points at the blank screen, pressing play.

There’s nothing but static until Emma Frost appears, looking as imposingly monarcle as ever in a white dress accentuated by a matching jeweled necklace and silver earrings with her sleek blonde hair in ringlets cascading over her shoulders. She crosses her legs and gives the camera her best dead-pan look. 

“So, Charles,” the recording of Emma Frost says, and it’s like she’s in the room with him, her stern gaze as sharp as ever even through a television screen. “you aren’t a fragile piece of glass. You can take life’s knocks. If you don’t do this you’ll regret it… don’t let life pass you by. Go and get him, for pete’s sake!” Static. 

Charles runs. 

He opens the living room curtains, but Erik’s no longer there. Of course he isn’t. He’s probably on his motorcycle on the road to god-knows where. Charles sucks in a deep breath and steels himself. He will find Erik, and he will tell him how he feels. He will. He’ll do whatever it takes. Charles strides to the front door and swings it open.

Erik stands in the hallway, his tall figure taking up the whole door frame.  

Charles stands in front of him, his mouth open slightly, one hand still on the doorknob, breathing heavily. He feels the gritty texture of flour against his palm and quickly looks down at himself. He’s a mess. Flour covers his comfortable black slacks and the front of his blue collared shirt, which is loose and unbuttoned at the top. His hair is a bird’s nest, and although he can’t see it himself he’s sure that it also has a coating of flour.  He looks up, craning his neck to compensate for Erik’s absurd height. Erik looks down at him. 

They surge to meet each other simultaneously, like two polar magnets. Charles reaches up the grab Erik’s collar at the same moment as Erik reaches down to grasp the back of Charles’ head. Their eyes meet for a split second―cornflower and gunmetal blue―and Charles’ breath hitches in his throat. Charles feels Erik’s large hands weave themselves through his messy hair, anchoring him. When their lips finally meet everything else goes quiet. This belongs to them. It’s like the moment of silence between thunder and lightning. 

One 

Two 

Three 

They kiss again, and it’s like a crack of light streaking across the darkness. It breaks the sky open. Charles feels his breath being stolen, but if they stop he thinks he’ll suffocate. Erik kicks the front door closed with his foot, pushing Charles back against the wall. Charles throws both arms around Erik, clawing at his back and then looping both arms around his neck. Charles breaks the kiss, just long enough to pull Erik into the bedroom. 

 

Charles wakes up to the sun shining in through the curtains, warming his bedroom with streaks of golden light. There is a weight on his chest, and he doesn’t have to look down to see that it’s Erik. His heart flutters uncontrollably and he smiles blissfully. He slowly lifts up a hand and strokes Erik’s gingery hair, twisting it around his fingers and thinking about how lucky he is. He remembers the previous night, the memories rushing back to him, and he feels a surge of joy. His and Erik’s legs are tangled together under the sheets, and Erik has a strong arm around him. He hopes for many more mornings like this. 

On this morning,  Dominique Bretodeau cuts up a freshly cooked chicken from the market for his grandson, Lucas, in the park. 

On this morning, Emma Frost finally gets The Boy holding a glass of water’s expression right. 

On this morning, Angel shrieks with delight and jumps in the air when she letter she opens turns out to be an acceptance from the top university she applied to after deciding to go back to school. 

On this morning, the edges of Janos’ lips lift upwards when he finds some extra cash on the dusty ground of the carnival.

On this morning, Shaw resigns his management title in favor of moving back to live with his parents, leaving the grocery in Azazel’s hands. 

September 28, 1997. It is exactly 11:00AM. At the carnival near the house of mirrors, fudge is cut into large, delectable rectangles. While in Villette Park, Felix L'herbier learns there are more links in his brain than atoms in the universe. At Sacre Coeur, Alex buys his baby brother Scott a chocolate ice cream cone and they sit on the stone steps, watching a flock of geese fly overhead. The temperature is 24 degrees celsius. Humidity, 70%. Atmospheric pressure, 999 millibars. 

Charles Xavier, 24 year old French-born Englishman, life-long resident of Paris, waiter at the Café de Sérénité, avid academic and Erik Lehnsherr, 27 year old Polish-born German, traveler, current resident of Paris, carnival worker, porn-cashier, and collector, drive a motorcycle down the cobblestone streets of Montmartre.

They accepted the love they thought they deserved, and found so much more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO sorry about how late this is!! The last few weeks have been excruciatingly busy for me, and it was difficult to find the time to write this. This is the end, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed the story. You guys are awesome.   
> Thank you!!


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